


Mortal Shores

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 2nd Age - Rings, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Solves frequent reader complaint, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Good pacing, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2002-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:58:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 117,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4239873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

****

MORTAL SHORES

A Second Age story

__

Disclaimer: Most of the characters and much of the setting are Tolkien's, and I plundered many of his works to write this. Tárion, however, is entirely mine.

This is a tale of Glorfindel, Gil-galad, Galadriel, Gildor Inglorion and several more, some of them OCs. Every now and then, AU elements may pop up. It will come to contain slash (m/m interaction), though not in the first chapters. Do not read if you think this is offensive and against the spirit of Tolkien, etc. etc. 

Tar Minastir, Eleventh King of Númenor, stood on a balcony, overlooking his great fleet in the harbour of Romenna. Tomorrow it would sail, and not a day too soon. Yesterday, he and his people had offered up the Erukyermë, the Spring Invocation of the One, adding an extra prayer to ask for favourable winds and a speedy voyage to Endor. If the Númenoreans came too late to break the siege of Lindon, the whole of Middle-earth would fall to Sauron. Their fair island, Elenna the Starward, would be an isolated patch of earth between a West that was inaccessible to mortals and an East inhospitable to all haters of the Shadow, mortal men, as well as Elves.

Though in a way he loved them, Minastir also envied the undying elder children of Eru Ilúvatar. And while he did not quite understand them, he suspected they did not quite understand him either, and held them in little esteem. Gil-galad's plea for assistance had been as formal as the High King of the Noldor of Endor could afford under the circumstances, and the King of Númenor answered it mainly for political reasons, and for the sake of his fellow Núumenoreans in Middle-earth. The Elves had an escape; they could sail West - and they did, draining the strength of their remaining kin. At least Gil-galad had the responsibility to stay. If that was his reason; Minastir did not know the man - elf - nor would he make his acquintance, for the King did not leave his island. 

With the wails of the gulls in his ears the King watched the breeze pull at banners and pennants. At present, it blew from the South, which would be well enough for tomorrow. If the Lord of the Breath of Arda had any sense at all, he would give it a further tug towards the west. But he doubted whether Manwë Súlimo cared about the affairs of Middle-earth, and of Men in particular.

A sound on the marble tiles in the room behind him made him turn. A servant entered to announce an important visitor to the King, who left the balcony and told him to show the man in.

But it was no man. It was an Elf.

A striking, golden-haired Elda he was, with the piercing eyes of his race, and the glow that marked him as one whose had dwelled in the Undying Lands while the Trees were alive. Yet there seemed to be more to him, as if his glow merely served as a veil for a still brighter radiance that might blaze forth any time he chose. It was slightly unnerving, even though he bowed to the king and his behaviour was in no way overbearing. He requested passage on one of the ships bound for Lindon, for himself and a companion. His name was Glorfindel. They had referred him to the King, judging him to be a person of importance.

Tar Minastir was surprised. It was not uncommon for the Eldar of Valinor to visit the Island of Númenor, but until now they had always returned to their home in the West. What would an Elf of Aman seek on those mortal shores? This one looked to be a warrior, though he did not wear mail, or bring a sword into the King's presence. Had Gil-galad's cries for help reached the ears of the Valar? Were there more to come? 

Not so, Glorfindel told the King. He had a quest of his own to fulfill, and companion came along out of curiosity. No others would follow. Their requirements were modest: space for two on a deck or in a hold, just enough to lie down. No demands, no airs, and not quite the aloofness Tar Minastir had learned to expect from the Elder People - though prying into the Elflord's privacy met with courteous evasions.

The fleet bound for Lindon was large enough to carry a moderate number of fugitives, so there was indeed space for two Elves. The request was granted.

***

Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor stood on the great tower of his palace outside Mithlond, looking East. Far too soon, his sharp Elven eyes met with the dark hosts that had engulfed most of his realm. In many places, Sauron's armies had reached the foothills of the Ered Luin. Only the lands around the Grey Havens west of the river Lune were still free of them, though the Enemy had reached the Tower Hills. The enemy scouts roamed the slopes to the South and the far North, searching for passages to cross the mountains and come upon their rear, and not all of them were caught. Lindon was a fortress under siege, with no escape but the sea. 

Yet at least a shimmer of hope remained for those who dwelt here. In the new stronghold of Imladris, to the East, his friend and kinsman Elrond was entirely surrounded by enemies, as was Celeborn in Lórien. Fortunately, every single Orc Sauron needed to keep those two in check meant one foe less in Lindon. Still, how many of Gil-galad's own people would have a chance to leave these mortal shores? Though the King had urged Cirdan to provide as many ships as possible, the shipwrights could only build so many vessels in so many months, and the woods were growing thin. Nor would they have many months left, if no help came. 

He turned from East to West, gazing across the Gulf of Lune to the sea beyond the promontories of Harlindon and Forlindon. Today, grey-blue waves covered what once had been Beleriand, his home of old in an age gone by. There, his father and sister had left their bodies behind, and Gil-galad found himself wondering if their spirits still dwelt in the Houses of the Dead. Where he would also go, should the Dark Lord prevail. Even if there was a ship for him left, he knew he would not embark. 

The sea was empty, lying dull and sullen beneath a heavily clouded sky. Not a single ship to be seen. He was not sure whether the Men of the West would heed his plea, or whether they would arrive in time if they did. Several years had passed since he had sent his letter, but if they had deigned to build up their navy, they tarried in launching it. He trusted the minds of these mortals but was less certain of their hearts; sometimes they seemed to shut the Eldar out for no other reason than the difference between the fates of the two Kindreds. He sighed.

'You fear they will not come.' 

Gil-galad turned towards the other two Elves standing on top of the tower. It was his kinswoman Galadriel who asked the question. Tall and proud, with a head of gold, she stood outlined against the grey sky, crowning the palace like a younger sister of Anar defying the clouds. Tárion, the Captain of his Guard, was standing beside her. He was a willowy, raven-haired Noldo who had survived both the Fall of Gondolin and the treacherous attack on the Havens of Sirion, to enter the service of the new High King at the beginning of the Second Age. 

'I don't know if I dare hope,' Gil-galad replied gloomily. 

'But do we need hope to persevere?' said Tárion. 'What else can we do when surrender is no option? Do you know, my lord king, that the day before yesterday, when I had a few hours to spare, I began a painting on the wall of my room?' 

As if he expected to occupy that room for many more centuries to come. Gil-galad smiled briefly. 'I stand corrected. Hope or no hope, we will defy the dark.'

'We will,' Galadriel spoke in that deep voice of hers, looking from the King to the Captain. 'As my brother Finrod never wearied of saying, there are two kinds of hope. One is Amdir, looking up: an expectation of good which has some foundation in that what is known. The other is founded deeper. This is Estel, the naked trust that does not come from experience but from our nature, a hope even against all hope that ultimately the One will not suffer to be deprived of his Children by any Enemy.'(1) 

Tárion bowed to her. 'If those were your brother's words, gracious lady, he was rightly named wise among the Eldar. And equally wise is his sister, for reminding us of them when they are truly needed.'

As indeed they were, especially for Galadriel. She was still exiled from Valinor and would not be able to sail West even if she wished to - as both Gil-galad and Tárion knew well enough. 

The lady captured the Captain's gaze. He had the strength of mind to withstand it, as Gil-galad had known he would. 'I thank you both,' the King said. 'You have actually succeeded in lifting up my spirits.'

Again, he stared at where the vast expanse of the sky met the undulating plains of the sea, and he imagined he saw the tip of a mast rise like the morning sun. 

__

(1)See the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, HoMe 10, Morgoth's Ring, p. 320.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

The Ciryatur(1) of the Númenorean fleet was intrigued to have two Elves on board of his ship, the Falmacilya. They looked like kinsmen to him; both fair-haired, tall, lean and sinewy, but then, Elves often looked alike to him. They were also young and handsome, though their youth was deceptive, of course. Observing them more closely he could discern a difference in age - or rather, maturity. The one introduced as Glorfindel was a warrior, as the admiral's experienced eyes told him. Quite possibly he had fought in the ancient wars of Beleriand, in a past more distant to the Ciryatur than the Gates of Morning on the far side of the World. Of the warrior status of Glorfindel's companion - Gildor, if he recalled correctly - he was less sure, though this one too, bore arms. Gildor seemed more light-hearted, not as serious as the other Elf; he laughed aloud at times, instead of merely smiling faintly and detachedly. Maybe that was the reason why he appeared younger. Or maybe he just was. 

Though the Ciryatur had little time to occupy himself with passengers, he did invite the two Elves to dinner once, at the end of the third day of their voyage. Tar Minastir had not explicitly instructed his admiral to try and hear them out, but it could be worth his while to ask questions, he thought. 

They reclined on couches, a habit of the Ciryatur's native Hyarnustar, one he refused to abandon even on a ship. The Elves were good at reclining. Especially Gildor, who stretched on his couch like a big, lazy panther of far Harad, and looked as if he could start blinking and yawning any time - unless he chose to crouch and leap. But like a cat, he was uncooperative when nudged.

Glorfindel was no more forthcoming. A few times, he swept away the questions hovering on the Ciryatur's tongue with a mere look from his eyes. The eyes had been bright enough from the start, but now the Númenorean discovered that this brightness merely served to veil a radiance he had never encountered before even in an Elf. A brilliance that Gildor's eyes seemed to lack. 

Though it galled him, he guessed he was lucky that most of his questions were judged worthy of an answer, though the answers did not tell him much. No, nothing had changed much in the Undying Realm since the Noldor had ceased to be rebels; change was a thing of mortal lands. No, the Valar would not intervene to save Middle-earth from Sauron, as they had once saved Beleriand from Morgoth. They wished Númenor well, but the fate of Men was not foretold in the Music of the Ainur, so meddling with it was dangerous. No, Gil-galad had not received a message concerning their arrival, and they had not come to aid him, though they would if he asked. But their errand was of a more private nature. By the way, the food was delicious and the wine excellent, and they thanked him for his gracious invitation and hospitality. Elves were not supposed to utter outright lies, and as their palates were refined, the Ciryatur accepted this for a compliment, told them the wine came from his own estates, and thanked them in his turn. Not much later he was called away, but he promised them to be back soon, and they agreed to stay for a while yet. 

When he returned, Glorfindel had moved to sit on Gildor's couch. They were speaking softly, an ancient form of Quenya. It looked innocent enough, but as the Man approached he saw that Glorfindel's hand rested on the younger Elf's thigh, quite close to the groin. He knew, or had heard, that in matters regarding the flesh the Elder race was both less and more restrained than Ilúvatar's younger children were: it was rumoured that Elves lay with whom they desired until they bonded forever, but also that they could suppress physical desire to a degree that was impossible to achieve for Men. 

The two on the couch did not immediately react. It was only when Glorfindel saw the Ciryatur's face that he withdrew his hand, not hurriedly, but with what seemed deliberate slowness. 

Unable to keep a slight edge from his voice the Ciryatur asked: 'Do you, perchance, require a private cabin, my friends?'

Glorfindel smiled faintly. 'We are perfectly content to sleep on deck beneath the starry dome of the sky, as we did until now.' 

Gildor laughed. 'Besides, it is our understanding that all your cabins are occupied. Who are we that we should want to turn out someone?'

Who were they, indeed? 

Elves... the Ciryatur thought, and checked himself. What if they were able to catch his thoughts? 

***

In the starless night, Galadriel slowly walked along the perimeter of the Fountain Court. Though it was the smallest court of the High King's palace, it was the one she loved most, because of the water splashing softly into the marble basin in the centre. Two lamps only lit the space enclosed by the arched galleries; they were fashioned in such a way that they gave more light as the sky grew darker. They were the work of an Elvensmith from Ost-in-Edhil the Fallen, perhaps of Celebrimbor himself, and tonight their rays were brighter than usual. 

The thought of Celebrimbor agitated her, and she increased the pace of her steps. His death was too recent for her to think of him with equanimity. No more than four years ago it was that Sauron took his city, tortured him to death and hoisted his corpse onto a pole to serve as a banner. A cruel end, but not even with his last breath had Celebrimbor turned traitor. He had refused to tell the Dark Lord to whom he had bestowed the three mightiest Elven Rings, those that enabled their keepers to ward of the decays of time and postpone the weariness of the world. 

She, Galadriel had one of them. Celebrimbor had given her Nenya, the Ring of Water, because she was the greatest of all the Eldar left in Middle-earth. Those, at least, were the words of his mouth, but behind them was the language of his burning heart, for he loved her. A hopeless love, as she was wedded to Celeborn of Doriath, yet this had never kept Celebrimbor from seeking her company. Nor had it kept him from seeking her council when the One Ring to rule all others was revealed on Sauron's hand, and the question arose what to do with the Three. 

He had been honest with her as never before. He told her what Sauron, then still known as Annatar, Lord of Gifts, had said to the Noldorin smiths of Eregion: 'You can make these lands as beautiful as Valinor itself. You can preserve all that you hold dear from decay and death. You can have the bliss and peace and perfection of Aman, and yet remain here on these mortal shores.' 

'Where our race is the greatest of all - not the least, as in the realm of the Valar,' Celebrimbor added, for her ears only.

A thought undoubtedly insinuated into his susceptible mind by the fallen Maia, as even he must have realised then - though he would never admit it. 

__

Rebellion, Galadriel remembered herself thinking. _This is rebellion_. Celebrimbor was the grandson of Fëanor, and more like the greatest of all Elvish rebels than she cared to dwell on. These rings were his act of defiance. But was not she, too, a rebel, who in her pride had followed the Spirit of Fire in search of realms of her own to dominate? Even here and now, while she walked around the gently splashing fountain, she could feel the power of Nenya reaching out to her, though she did not wear it anywhere near or on her body.

'Destroy the Three,' wisdom had urged her to say, knowing that Sauron could govern the thoughts of their wearers if his own Ring was on his finger. But what she had said aloud was: 'They cannot be used as long as the Ruling Ring exists.' 

Celebrimbor had been only too eager to listen, for it meant he would preserve the work of his hands. 

In their desire for power and possession lurked their lack of strength to follow the path of wisdom. Galadriel was well aware of that. 

To this, another awareness had been added. One that had hit her forcefully when, seeking refuge in Lindon, she set eyes on the Sea again. 'Your home is in the West,' the waves murmured, and 'Remember where you belong,' the gulls cried. Never before had she heard it so clearly. And she knew it was Nenya who sharpened her hearing, and that from now on the Ring of Water would add to her tears of loss. 

For Galadriel, daughter of the wise Finarfin, Galadriel the Unpardoned, was banned from returning to the West. Still worse: she was not even sure that she would if the ban were lifted. Such was the plight that Celebrimbor's gift of love caused her. The fruit of love rejected. She should not have accepted.

Yet she had. And now Sauron was coming.

_  
_

(1)as this means 'ship-commander', and as Ciryatur was the admiral of the Númenorean fleet come to rescue Middle-earth, I take it to be a title rather than a name. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

That same night, in his room above the Hall of the Guard, Tárion the Captain was adding a tall tower to his sketch of two days earlier. Having exchanged his armour for an old shirt and his instruments of war for a tool of art he felt truer to himself again, and he was singing softly while he worked. The picture he had in mind would cover the entire wall, so he had cleared away a chair, his writing table and his clothes chest, to clutter the space on either side of his bed. This way the room looked as if he prepared to move elsewhere. Overseas.

Tárion knew he would not take ship to escape the Dark Lord. He was of the opinion that he had moved too often in his life: from Vinyamar to Gondolin, from the destruction of Gondolin - a painful, headlong flight from imminent perils to vaguely looming dangers - to the Havens of Sirion, from the burning of the Havens to the Isle of Balar and from there to the westernmost lands not destroyed in the War of Wrath. He was determined to remain with his King, for better and for worse. At the moment, worse seemed the most likely.

He began to draw the balcony at the top of the tower, but before he was halfway done he paused, and stopped singing. Though he had been expecting the vivid memories appearing before his mind's eye, he had not anticipated the force of their onslaught. Looking at his hand he saw that it shook. That would not do, and he told himself sternly to resume his sketching. 

Before he could regain full control he sensed that the door was being opened, though there was no sound to be heard. Only one person would enter his room without knocking. And turning away from the wall, Tárion watched the High King enter the room and close the door as silently as he had opened it. 

Gil-galad was still dressed in the flowing blue robe he had worn during the evening meal, the royal circlet on his head. He smiled at the Captain of his Guard and crossed to the wall to inspect the artist's progress. 'If you began this the day before yesterday, you work fast,' was his conclusion.

'I was, until I met with an... obstacle.' Tárion noticed that his hand had stopped shaking. He stepped back to assess his own work. 

'What obstacle?' Gil-galad inquired, searching his face. 'Memories?'

Tárion nodded. 'Do you want me to stop?'

'Do you want to stop?'

'Perhaps not yet... Never cease when you are stuck, but struggle on until you remember where you were headed.'

'And then you may relax,' said the King. He took off his footwear and sat down cross-legged on the bed, the blue robe puddling around him like a small lake. The sketcher turned back to his sketch, and after a short hesitation continued working at it. 

After a while, Gil-galad asked: 'What are you making? Gondolin?'

Adding the finishing touch to a tiny figure on the balcony Tárion said: 'Your eyes are as keen as your lance.'

Gil-galad chuckled. 'Let us rather say that I know you, Valanya(1)... But why this subject, with the armies of the Dark scant leagues away? Is that what you call keeping our hopes up?' 

'Gracious King,' the Captain replied with slight mockery, 'what makes you think I am drawing the _Fall_ of Gondolin? The city stood for hundreds of years, singing with the music of water, shining in her splendour. Those are the days I hope to evoke.' He liked to refer to Gondolin as a woman. A spouse to her King, a mother of many children. 

'You never fail to make me think I missed something,' the gracious King said wistfully. 'But I guess I will soon set eyes on your fabled City as it was in its halcyon years, for you are a true artist.'

Sadly, the Captain shook his head. 'An artist is what I would like to be. As things are now, I am but a warrior.'

Sliding from the bed, Gil-galad came to stand before him. With a swift movement he took the circlet from his brow and placed it on the other's head. 'You are not "but a warrior", as you know well enough! You are a Noldo, even more so than I am. And artists is what the Noldor are, even when they are many other things as well. As you are.'

Everything about Tárion went rigidly still, but for his face, where he felt ancient hurts waging war against a strong desire to smile. His hand went up, and no sooner had the smile won the battle or he lifted the golden circlet from his dark hair and handed it back to its owner. 'What is it you want to speak about?' 

Gil-galad hooked the circlet on his index finger and swung it around. 'Guess. On which matter would I ask your advice?'

Tárion's smile vanished again. 'The Rings,' he said flatly.

***

On the Falmacilya, the two Elves from Valinor lay side by side on the deck, wrapped in their cloaks. On the other side of the ship, near the bow, a group of Númenorean soldiers sat up late, talking and drinking. Every now and again, an outburst of merriment drifted along the length of the deck towards the stern. 

The Elves were silent. Their waking eyes drank in the glory of Varda's stars adorning the vast expanse of the sky. But the view was less splendid than it could have been, as part of it was obscured by wisps of cloud that foretold them the fair weather of the previous days might not last. The wind, too, was rising, and the noises of the ship increased. They had covered more than half the distance separating Númenor from Lindon, and the signs they were leaving the mild climes of the south were increasing.

At the moment, however, it was not the risk of running into a spring gale that occupied Gildor's mind. 'Now the Ciryatur of Númenor may spread the rumour that we are lovers,' he said when he deemed ther silence had lasted long enough.

'That is plain,' replied Glorfindel. 'Do not let it bother you overmuch...' he paused for a while, '... unless you regret declining his generous offer of a private cabin?'

'Well... I glanced into one of the cabins yesterday. They have feather beds. I was sorely tempted to accept.'

'You are a pampered youth, Gildor.'

'I am older than your second body.'

'Which is very young,' Glorfindel countered, mildly amused. 'I wonder why you do not deny you are pampered.'

Gildor snorted. 'Some charges do not merit denial.'

'Such as the Ciryatur's suggestion that we are more than friends.'

Rolling to his side with a fluid movement, Gildor studied Glorfindel in the starlit darkness. The blond hair of the twice-embodied one - the same hue as his own, but straighter - gleamed softly, framing a noble face shining with a light of its own. 'You deliberately prolonged the contact to provoke him.'

'I did,' his companion admitted. 'I allowed myself to be a little... vexed by the man's obtrusive interrogation.' His eyes glinted. 'He was even worse than you.'

Gildor sighed. He knew no more than the Ciryatur did regarding the other Elf's errand. Not for want of trying to find out - he had pried long enough, even suggesting that Glorfindel had grown tired of telling the Eldar of Valinor the story of the Fall of Gondolin and was looking for a new audience in Middle-earth. But the other Elf had remained tight-lipped. But as frivolous curiosity was Gildor's predominant motive to leave the Blessed but not Very Eventful Realm, he guessed he was lucky that Glorfindel the Balrog Slayer deigned to accept his company at all. 

As he was wide awake and felt no desire to explore the paths of his dreams yet, he prolonged the conversation by changing subject.

'What do you think of Men in general?' he asked. Unlike Gildor himself, Glorfindel had repeatedly visited Númenor. Having had ample opportunity to study the race, he must have formed an opinion.

'You mean, Men as opposed to Women?' Glorfindel inquired innocently, just before the wind carried a gust of Númenorean laughter towards them.

'I think you know what I mean.' 

After a thoughtful and lengthy silence Glorfindel replied: 'The only mortals I ever met are the Dúnedain. They are a mighty people, strong, valiant, enterprising, great craftsmen and mariners. But the first time I saw them they were more like the Firstborn than they have become since: wiser, the light in their eyes shining more brightly - and less envious of our long lives. There is a struggle going on in their souls: they are restless, ever seeking what is new and strange, sailing to the ends of the earth to find it - yet they would reject the Gift of Death that saves them from growing bored and weary of the world.'

'But is it not tempting to want what you cannot have,' Gildor heard himself say.

'And since when have you grown so experienced that you would know this?'

Gildor laughed and rolled onto his back again, stretching himself. 'It is something my grandfather told me once.'

'Ah!' Glorfindel said. 'Your grandfather. Yes, he would.'

__

But I did not say it on his authority alone, Gildor thought.

__

(1)This will be explained later (in case there are people who want an explanation). 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

'Mother, I will not leave,' Celebrian said stubbornly. 'If darkness will engulf the last free lands of Middle-earth, I would not want to sit alone on Tol Eresseä knowing that everyone I loved was in the Halls of Mandos.'

'The sole purpose of bringing you here was to give you a chance to leave and live,' said her mother, whose patience was audibly stretched. 'Your father and I agreed on this before the destruction of Eregion. Can you not see why we would have it so, my daughter?'

She could. But her parents had not consulted the object of their loving care. Celebrian had ceased to be a child several centuries ago, and she did have a mind of her own. Given her mother's character, she considered this quite an achievement. 

Her mother seldom put pressure on anyone, as guidance and counsel usually achieved more lasting results. But this was her own daughter and a thing too close is never seen clearly. Celebrian knew she would not obey, and she also knew she would not be carried to a ship trussed up like one of Sauron's captured spies.

They both knew there were too few ships; too many would not be able to flee. 'Yes, I can see why you would have it so,' Celebrian replied slowly. 'As most parents would. But will the farrier's daughter be able to embark, or the fletcher's son? Why should I be chosen?'

Though she could not look away at will, she had never been afraid of her mother's gaze. Nor was she now; her mind was open and she had nothing to hide. 

'What a bitter contradiction,' Galadriel mused at last. 'I feel the call but I cannot go; you could go but you do not feel the call.'

Celebrian turned away to one of the windows overlooking the shipyards. Even now, at the hour of the noon meal, the shipbuilding was in full swing. Many of Círdan's people were at work, more so than ever, it seemed to her, and the hammer strokes seemed frenzied like never before. 'Is it... your Ring?' she asked.

'Do not speak of it!' her mother said rather sharply.

Before Celebrian could react, the distant sounds of activity ever present in the background rose to a clamour. Galadriel, nearer to the door, reached it first. A few moments later they were hurrying through the corridors.

In the Forecourt, many voices were shouting simultaneously. From what Celebrian's ears were able to catch, she understood that enemies had crossed the Emyn Beraid and were even now breaking through their first line of defence. The whole court had exploded into a frenzy of activity. Warhorses were being led from the stables, squires were bringing shields and banners, and in the midst of it all the High King came striding down the Great Stairs in his shining armour, doing full justice to the _epessë_ that named him Star of Radiance. Not for the first time, Celebrian found herself gazing admiringly at his awesome appearance. 

The Kingsguard waited in the centre of the court, Tárion the Captain already on horseback. Gil-galad briefly conferred with him before turning to mount his own stallion, white Nimroch. A squire handed him his spear. 

A broad-shouldered figure with flowing, silver-white tresses emerged from under the arch of the gate: Círdan the Shipwright. He hurried towards the King, and drawing near with her mother, Celebrian could hear their exchange. 

'My men are ready,' said Círdan. 'Is it your wish to take them along?'

Gil-galad shook his head. 'Let them prepare to defend the Havens.' He held out an arm.

Círdan clasped it firmly. 'May Elbereth protect you.'

'And you.' The King mounted. Then, his eye fell on Galadriel.

'Do you still keep them in the place you showed me before?' she asked, her deep voice calm as a summer sea.

'I do, kinswoman,' Gil-galad answered. 'No doubt you will know what to do when we fail to return.'

Galadriel inclined her head. 

' _Nai auta i lóme_ ,''(1) said the King. He had to be in a very solemn mood, to use Quenya. The next moment, he rode away surrounded by his guard. 

Celebrian followed him with her eyes until he disappeared under the arch of the gate. Turning towards her mother, she saw saw Galadriel's forehead crease slightly.

'What is it, Mother?' she asked. 'Apart from the subject we discussed earlier?'

'I cannot tell you yet,' was all her mother said.

She is not happy to see me look up towards Gil-galad, Celebrian said to herself. Why not, I wonder?

They did not enter the palace again but left by the main gate. Círdan tried to dissuade them from it, in case the Enemy should breach all their shield-walls within the next few hours. But Galadriel was not easily dissuaded, if at all. And so they went down to the quays, while Círdan rejoined his army of shipwrights.

It was when they stood gazing out across the Gulf of Lune, that Celebrian thought she felt a sudden ripple in the air, as a portent of things to come.

***

They rode at full speed, the King in the lead, the Captain of the Guard a horse head behind him. They could only guess how many enemies had broken through the defences; for all they knew, they could be galloping to their deaths. Gil-galad glanced aside at what little was visible of Tárion's face between the protective steel pieces of his helmet. Not a trace of fear, only concentration, and a mouth set in a familiar way. No mercy for the enemy, none for himself.

No one Gil-galad knew had been closer to death. He remembered the tale well, though Tárion had only told it once: how long ago, when Gondolin had fallen and its survivors were fleeing, he had found his spirit hovering above a badly damaged body lying below a cliff in the Cirith Thoronath. How he had come to realise that this shell of flesh was his own; all he needed to do was tear his gaze away from it to hear the call of Mandos. But he had not looked away; he had returned to the blaze of pain and the agony of loss to which he had been reduced in that hour of utter darkness. And somehow, he had summoned the strength to rise and stumble on through the pass until he found other fugitives able to tend to him. 

For Tárion had promised to survive, and he had survived. 

Since then, Death had a familiar face to him: the still face of one lying motionlessly below a rock face. He would not hesitate one heartbeat to die - not only for his King, but also for every single member of this too small company. Gil-galad fervently hoped he would not. But there was no way he would exact a promise to survive from someone who had suffered so much by making the first one. 

He wished he could ride to battle like the others. He wanted to be just a guard, just a warrior, just anyone who could fight heedless of peril and die for - well, Tárion, in his case - without wondering what would befall his people, his lands, this Middle-earth, if he fell. Maybe he would, some day: if everything was to be gained, nothing to be lost, and _estel_ was all that was left. But not today, for today there was still hope of both kinds. And he, the High King must needs be its token.

A High King who had no son to inherit his crown.

A curse on idle wishes; he ought to concentrate on present dangers. His keen eyes saw a flurry of movement in the distance. They had not yet reached the Emyn Beraid; could the Enemy have advanced this far?

The Captain of the Guard had seen it, too; he readied his bow and raised it. He did not draw and loose, though, for the rider approaching them was a scout of their own. Before he reached them he shouted something about making haste, about y _rch_ crawling through the hills like insects. Pulling around his mound and galloping along with Gil-galad for a while, he warned them: the foes were closer than they seemed, for the wind came straight and strong from the West and most of the din of the Glamhoth(2) was blown the other way. That, he guessed must have been one of the reasons behind this attack.

'Is the Enemy's main host advancing?'

'We cannot tell. It may well be.' The scout glanced over his shoulder at the riders following the King. 'My lord, allow me to say that you brought a rather small force.'

'The odds?'

'At least four to one. And' - he hesitated - 'not all of them _yrch_. Some are evil Men from beyond Mordor.'

Much harder to fight than orcs. Mortal foes... Gil-galad thought. But no, the Orcs were the mortal foes.

'Ride on to the Havens,' he told the scout. 'Tell the the lord Círdan to send reinforcements.'

'And if it's a ruse?' Tárion said when the scout swerved to head for the Havens. 'Other enemy forces closing in from the South and the North?'

'What would you have us do, then?' Gil-galad asked.

'The same,' his Captain replied. 'A danger one sees...

'... is worse than a threat one fears,' the King finished. 

They hurried on. Above the thundering of their horses' hooves, the faint clamour of battle could be heard.

TBC.

_  
_

(1)Quenya. I hope it means 'may the Shadow pass away'

(2)Noisy horde, Sindarin word for Orcs.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

The coastline of Eriador had been within sight for some days now, at least for the two Elves. Sheer cliffs looking as if they were hewn into shape by a giant battle axe, rose above rock-strewn beaches. Occasional small coves offered glimpses of the greenery beyond, and here and there small streams struggled to join a sea pushing back at them with a mighty surf. Various species of birds nestled in holes in the cliff face or soared through the air, their cries mingling with the sounds of the wind and the waves. It was beautiful enough, Glorfindel mused, yet to those who had lived in the Undying Lands, looked upon Mount Taniquetil and dwelled in the Gardens of Lórien, Middle-earth would always pale in comparison. Even to those who had never seen Valinor bathe in the Light of the Trees, like Gildor - whose verdict turned out to be 'charming'. 

According to the Númenoreans who had been to Middle-earth before, the fleet was approaching the Gulf of Lune that split the country of Lindon in two. On the Ciryatur's orders, signals were sent to the ship on starboard and from there relayed to others further away. After a while the Elves, who were sanding near the prow to gaze at the shore, noticed how several vessels of the fleet tacked and turned south. 

'Have you any idea where they are going?' Gildor asked. 

'There is a port further down the coast,' Glorfindel answered. 'Lond Daer, founded by the great Tar Aldarion. Those ships are heading there to attack the Enemy in the flank.'

'How do you know?'

'I do not. But I looked at the Ciryatur's maps, and this seems as good a guess as any.' Glorfindel cast a glance at his companion. 'Did it never occur to you to study a map of Middle-earth? You will dwell there for a considerable time, even according to the measure of our kindred.'

Gildor laughed. 'Oh, I did look at maps, Glorfindel. I even know that Lond Daer was called Vinyalondë first, and that it lies at the mouth of a river named Gwathló. But I just wondered if you were in the Ciryatur's confidence.' 

Glorfindel hid his amusement at the eagerness with which Gildor displayed his newly gained knowledge. 'You do not truly believe that, do you? This Ciryatur is not likely to trust a couple of Eldar from Valinor.' 

'Confidence seems to be difficult to win... in the mortal world.'

Glorfindel slung an arm loosely around the younger Elf's shoulders. Not for the first time since they had set out from Valinor he regretted that he could not be more forthcoming towards Gildor. But the fewer people knew about his errand, the better. Or so his guide and friend Olórin thought, and Glorfindel could easily see the wisdom of it(1). The matter was grave enough to become a burden to anyone who could but wait and watch. Gildor would be better off if he remained ignorant. And he finally seemed to have accepted Glorfindel's silence. 

The second, much more personal reason behind his journey was something he could not speak of at all. He thought of his conversation with his former liege lord Turgon, King of Gondolin, in the Halls of Mandos. Knowing that his period of purging and healing in the Halls would last more than one age of the world Turgon had asked a favour of the lord of the Golden Flower, whose sacrifice at Cirith Thoronath had earned him such an early release. And though part of the fallen King's tale shocked him, Glorfindel had willingly agreed to search out the person Turgon named to him, wherever he should be - and not in the last place because it was someone he, too, wished to find again.

To Glorfindel's surprise, Gildor suddenly pressed against him like a pet or a lover begging for a caress, but then he saw the Ciryatur approach and understood the younger Elf was merely being ostentateous and just a little provocative. 

'The main part of the fleet will presently sail into the Gulf of Lune,' the Man told the Elves, trying not to stare. 'Owing to your keen eyesight, you will no doubt be able to assess the situation along the coast sooner than any Man could. And as it is of great importance to know beforehand if the Enemy has taken possession of the Havens I wonder, if one of you would be so kind to climb to the crow's nest and act as a lookout.'

'Of course!' Gildor cried, and before Glorfindel and the Ciryatur were aware of it he was on his way to the great mast. The admiral of the Númenorean fleet could have asked the meanest of ship-boys to convey the request, instead of coming in person, and Gildor would still have said yes, so much was plain. 

The two others watched him run up the riggings like a cat rushing up a tree.

'Your kind never ceases to amaze me,' the Ciryatur said almost reproachfully. 'I would swear he has been doing this for most of his days under the Sun - but of course you are going to tell me it is merely a talent the Eldar are born with.'

'In his case you would not forswear yourself, my lord,' Glorfindel replied politely. 'Gildor has spent many years near the harbour of Alqualondë, where his kin dwells, and he is familiar with ships.' 

He wisely refrained from saying that the rest was also true.

***

Celebrian returned to her own room, but her mother, feeling restless, decided to climb the watchtower again. Unless most of the fighting took place in the Tower Hills, she might be able to watch the battle from the top of the tower and see how things went for the King and his troops. Once, she would have girded a sword and joined the warriors. Not now, and certainly not while her daughter was here. 

Celebrian... it pained Galdriel to see her only child look at Gil-galad with such hopeful eyes. He would never return that gaze. And she could not tell her daughter why not. Nor would she, even if the choice was hers. 

With heavy steps, Galadriel ascended the stairs. If the King's forces were defeated and Sauron would march on Mithlond, she would have to seek out Gil-galad's secret hiding place and collect the other two Elven Rings, Nárya and Vilya. And then...

Destroy them to prevent Sauron from laying hands om them, but how? By casting herself into the Sea she could not cross? She did not think Ulmo would lift her up like he had lifted up Elwing of Doriath so long ago. _Sindanóriello caita mornië i falmalinnar..._ (2) Galadriel closed her eyes. The steps of the winding stair fell away beneath her and it seemed to her that she could feel the spray of foaming waves against her face and see a grey ship bearing away a group of people, faint and hazy, as through a mist of ages. The figures were too vague to recognise. 

Her eyes fluttered open and once more she felt the steps beneath her feet. Briefly, she thought of the silver basin Celebrimbor had fashioned for her to use as a Mirror of Times, and she wondered if it would have provided clarity. But though its images used to be more sharply outlined than those she had seen a few moments ago, not everything they showed would inevitably happen. And as the Mirror was far away in Lórien, wishing for it was futile. 

She climbed on. The watchman on the roof stood leaning over the parapet, his gaze fixed on the East. She joined him. What she saw did not look good: part of the fighting took place on this side of the Emyn Beraid, which meant the Enemy had come frighteningly close to the Havens. Everywhere in the fray her eyes caught the sparks of metal, but there was only one star: the King's helm shining in the thick of battle. The members of his guard moved about him like clusters of lesser stars in ever wheeling constellations, surrounded by dark blotches of _yrch_ and other foes. At one moment, the Captain, his sword a flash, appeared at the King's side to form a double star. If she listened carefully, her ears could hear the yells, the frantic neiging and the clang of blades.

Closer by, the thunder of hooves sent the earth trembling. More warriors on horseback left the Havens. She recognized Círdan's device, though the Shipwright himself was not at their head. So Gil-galad had sent for reinforcements. 'This bodes ill,' she said aloud. How many people would be left to defend the precious ships? Perhaps she should don armour after all and revive the Elder days. 

'Yes, my lady,' the watchman said, sounding vexed. His eyes were locked on the battle raging near the Tower Hills. Galadriel could see he wanted to be there, instead of idling on this tower, as he would perceive it. 

But he was here to watch, and not merely to gaze eastward. Galadriel turned the other way. 

Her cry made the watchman whirl and stare west as well. He raised his horn and blew a signal of clear, sharp notes. Far away, between the promontories of Harlindon and Forlindon, the narrow entrance to the Gulf of Lune was clogged with warships. Númenor was coming. 

__

(1)For the connection between Olórin (Gandalf) and Glorfindel, read the relevant information in Last Writings, HoMe 12, The People of Middle Earth.

(2)Quenya: Out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves. (No bonus for recognising Galadriel's lament in FotR.) 


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Gil-galad jerked his spear from the corpse of the slain orc and looked for the next prey. Most orcs tried to avoid his fury, but few of them succeeded, pushed forward as they were by those behind them. He thrust again. From the corner of his eye, he saw an arm with a blade rise and descend. Tárion, he knew, but in battle the distinction between wielder and blade was blurred. Fighting reduced you to a weapon - yet it had to be done, and it brought a heady satisfaction, like guilty lovemaking could do. 

Aiglos plunged down once more. This orc screeched. The piercing sound rose above the din, assailing his ears and mind, making his hatred blaze again. Another orc, through the throat. In the nick of time, he yanked away his mound from the scimitar lounging at its belly. Too little space. Too many foes. Further away, the ranks of the corrupted Men were closing in now. The King pointed ahead, barking a command. His Captain relayed it, and they pressed on, riding down more _yrch_ than they skewered. 

The last of them fled left and right, making way for the Men. The foremost of this company was in black, from helmet to feet, his eyes invisible behind a visor. That would make it more difficult to kill him but at the same time easier. It was unnerving to slay Men, for even the evil ones bore the faces of Eru's children. But this one was just a metal device on horseback. Gil-galad feinted and waited for the other's great axe to swish past, if only by an inch. He thrust, and on impact wrenched his spear-tip upward between breastplate and helmet. Blood gushed, red as his own, not black as an orc's. There was another difference. Orcs fought in a horde, but never as a body. Men had comrades-in-arms, even those who had sided with Sauron, and the warrior next to Gil-galad's victim rushed in to avenge his fallen comrade. Expecting this, the King was prepared, and he raised his shield to block the blow. But, though he also saw the second attacker coming from the other side, it was too late to swerve, to avoid the double-bladed axe descending on him.

Tárion did not hesitate. Kicking his horse hard in the flank, feeling a brief pang of regret, he threw himself between the King and the axe. This was what he lived for, and Gil-galad had never begged him to survive. His blood rang in his ears when the vicious blade crashed into his armour, cutting through the steel and digging into his left shoulder. Losing his balance, he toppled sideways from his horse. He vaguely expected to hit the ground, though he could not see it, blinded as he was by agonising pain. 

The impact came too soon and was not nearly jarring enough. He was being pulled up and hitched onto something moving - by a pair of arms, onto the back of a horse. From far away, a keen note pieced his ears, as if Mandos had taken to calling the _fëar_ of the death with a trumpet. Last time, there had been no sound, just an awareness. But then, last time, the call had not been final.

Suddenly, all about him people were shouting loudly, hurting him with the clamour. 'Cover my back!' a great voice above him cried, making his body reverberate painfully. The horse started forwards. 

It was Gil-galad, Tárion realised, who had caught him when he tumbled from the saddle. His arms enclosed him on both sides, feeling like a haven. 

Then, a thought struck him. Was the High King leaving the battlefield to carry him to safety?

'Can't do that,' he muttered. 

His vision, blurred already, darkened a little more when Gil-galad bent over him and said: 'What?'

'King mustn't... leave field. Looks like... flight. Arto... just let me...'

'Shh,' Gil-galad soothed him. 'I can leave without seeming to flee. The Enemy is withdrawing. The watchman in Mithlond has blown the horn.' 

'Númenor?' Tárion whispered.

'Very likely. I think we can look up now, Valanya.'

The Captain smiled wanly. Then, something was pressed hard against his shoulder to stem the flow of his blood, and he lost consciousness.

***

Everybody seemed to be underfoot, searching for a vantage point from which they could see the Númenorean fleet approach. As Celebrian's room did not offer her the slightest glimpse even when she stepped onto the window sill and leaned as far out as possible while clutching the frame with one hand, she hurried down to the quays. She felt slightly guilty: she ought to be relieved because delivery was nigh, not because no one would press her to leave Middle-earth now. 

In the harbour, shipwrights were standing on the yards of their vessels, the wood groaning under their weight, despite the elven-craft that had gone into their making. Celebrian was reminded of autumn trees crowded with noisy birds of passage. Círdan was perched in the crow's nest of the largest vessel, his light hair flowing in the breeze. 

Inhaling the scent of salt and pitch and stain, she climbed a pile of crates to gaze west between two of the ships. And there it was, the war fleet of the Dúnedain, dark and large in the mouth of the Gulf. A reassuring sight, but at the same time imposing enough to be slightly disconcerting. She had expected something different, something - more elegant? Brighter? The shadows of these vessels were rippling into their direction. But that, she told herself, was merely because the sun was in the West.

The sound of hoof beats made her turn. A lonely rider came galloping from the East, a limp figure in his arms. His white stallion, unguided, headed straightly for the palace gates. The rider was Gil-galad, she saw, but he was no longer a star of radiance. There was blood on his armour, on his helm, on his chin - and on Nimroch, too, and on the body he was cradling. Scrambling down the pile of crates she jumped to the ground and hurried to the palace, her heart thudding wildly long before she ran out of breath. 

The King reached the Forecourt first and was shouting orders when she caught up with him. He was looking grim. Two servants helped him ease the limp body down from the horse's back, and now she saw it was Tárion the Captain. 

'Is he dead, my lord?' Celebrian asked.

'No. But he may die when he is not tended to right away,' Gil-galad snapped.

Though she was taken aback by the fierceness of his reply she ventured: 'And you - are you wounded?'

'Only my -' He checked himself. 'I am unscathed, thank you, my lady.' He dismounted and knelt beside the injured Noldo, mumbling something too soft for even her keen ears to catch.

Only his pride? she thought. Or did he mean something else? 

Two Elves hurried towards them carrying a hurdle. The Captain was carefully laid on it, lifted, and carried away, accompanied by the King. 

Celebrian's eyes followed, but when her feet made to follow as well a hand on her arm held her back. She wheeled, the spell unbound.

It was her mother, in a grey gown that was mostly covered by a linnen apron. Celebrian had not noticed her approach. Galadriel cast a brief glance at the disappearing group and shook her head. 'There is nothing you can do about it.'

A peculiar way of putting it, but Celebrian knew better than to ask questions, to try and fathom the sea of time and space and knowledge that was Galadriel's mind. At times, it was a trial to have such an awesome mother. 'I could help,' she suggested, 'I learned all that I need to know about dressing wounds when we tended to the survivors from Ost-in-Edhil.'

'Soon, there will be more wounded to take care of.' 

She was right: the first of them were already trickling in, though none of them as badly injured as the Captain. Galadriel immediately took the lead, calling others to assist them, and for a while Celebrian was too busy to think of more than the nearest basin of clean water and the next bandage. It was not until both the work and the day were done, that she looked around again and discovered that her mother was gone.

When she asked if anyone had seen her mother leave, she was told that Galadriel had gone to take a look at the wounded Captain, whose life seemed to hang on a thread.

Why she, but not I? Celebrian wondered.

TBC


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

For the benefit of the readers, I will use the names of the POV characters as headings from now on.

**  
**

The Ciryatur

Gildor was the perfect lookout. Not only could he see much further than any of the Ciryatur’s sailors, he also had a better night vision. Like a feline, indeed - though the admiral suspected the other Elf’s eyes would penetrate the black shadows of the new moon just as easily. Maybe even more so, as their light was more piercing. But Glorfindel seemed reluctant to relieve his companion in the crow’s nest. He climbed up only once, and not for long, his face a little taut when he descended. The Ciryatur wondered if he was afraid of heights, though nothing he had ever heard about Elves indicated they were prone to such afflictions. A bad experience in the past, then, and still haunted by the memory?

Whatever it was, it did not mean that Glorfindel remained idle. Once they had entered the Gulf of Lune the wind diminished considerably, and the Ciryatur had ordered the oars to be put out. Save the admiral himself and his second-in-command all the sailors were expected to row, and Glorfindel had taken his place among them, seemingly without a second thought. At first, the Númenoreans, the Ciryatur among them, had laughed a little, for surely these Elves were too slender to be of much use pulling an oar. Glorfindel had soon disabused them of the notion by rowing for two subsequent shifts and seeming none the worse for wear, and now they all wondered how strong he actually was.

Meanwhile, Gildor’s reports were not encouraging: the enemies seemed to be almost everywhere, and they were closing in. Orcs defiled the mountains to the north and south, more numerous than the Elven scouts who tried to intercept them. To the southeast, large groups of unspecified Mannish origin were marching towards the Havens, the earth groaning under their feet. Or so Gildor claimed; the Ciryatur heard nothing of the kind. Also, there were many dark birds in the air, and that was something that did draw the Ciryatur’s attention. 

‘Are we up against crows as well?’ he asked Glorfindel, who joined him on the foredeck. 

‘It is conceivable that the Enemy uses _crebain_ as spies,’ the Elf answered. 

The Ciryatur could not help wondering who exactly the Enemy was, and why he had invaded Eriador. The Númenoreans knew his name: Sauron, a powerful Maia. The Dark Lord, as Gil-galad called him in his letter to Tar Minastir, had been the greatest servant of Melkor, also known as the Morgoth. Yet in books of ancient lore the Ciryatur had read that after the War of Wrath this Sauron had begged the pardon of the Lords of the West, and had been forgiven. Was he as thoroughly evil as the Elves claimed, or had his wrath been aroused for a reason? 

He looked at the Elf. It was possible that Glorfindel knew nothing, though it seemed unlikely. Yet, if he did know something, he would certainly not speak of it before he had seen the High King of the Noldor. By now, the Ciryatur had learned not to probe if he did not want to run the risk of hurting his own vanity and pride. Still, it could be worthwhile to do some investigating once he reached Mithlond. Tar Minastir would greatly appreciate it.

They were passing the port of Harlond to the south when Gildor announced he could see the Grey Havens now. The ships had obviously been sighted as well, for, inaudible to mortal ears, a horn was being blown. 

'And there is a battle going on,' the young Elf added abruptly.

'Where?' the Ciryatur shouted up at him.

'Between the southern harbours and the hills beyond. Elves, Orcs, and Men in black. But the Orcs are faltering, I think.' 

'And the people at the Havens?'

'I see many on the quays and on the vessels in the harbour. Several of them look our way. Some are waving their arms, but at each other rather than at us, I believe.' Gildor laughed. 'Though I am sure they would be cheering more diligently if they knew some of us were able to discern them.' 

'Have you greeted them yet?' Glorfindel asked.

The Númenorean admiral, who recognized a rebuke when he heard one, suppressed a grin. If they were lovers, they were certainly not of the turtledove kind. 

Gildor, unchastised, raised an arm and swept it from side to side in an exaggerated wave. 

'Did they see you?' the Ciryatur wanted to know.

Bending forward, his long hair covering his cheeks like a curtain, the younger of the two Elves peered East. 'I do not think they are paying attention anymore,' he declared at last. 'There is some upheaval, it seems. A lone rider galloping from the East... holding something in his arms.' He straightened, and his tone became grave. 'Some body.'

***

**  
**

Galadriel

'I will not lose him,' Gil-galad said softly but defiantly.

Tárion looked half lost already, ghastly pale, eyes closed, his unmoving body covered by a sheet that looked like a shroud. Galadriel had to watch him very carefully to see the rise and fall of his chest, though her mind could sense the wavering flame of his life. He lay in the King's bed - not for the first time, she knew, though she had never told either of them that she did. How and when they had first become lovers was unknown to her, but Gil-galad's mien and behaviour made it abundantly clear that their bond was strong. He would fight hard for Tárion's life, and with every means he had at his disposal. 

The thought chilled her, for she realised what those means were. 

'What say the healers?' she asked.

'They give me little hope,' the King murmured without taking his eyes from the still face on the bed. 'The wound is not poisoned, but he has lost a tremendous amount of blood. He is of the Eldar; a mortal would have succumbed before I ever reached Mithlond. Even so...'

Galadriel bent forward to pull away the sheet. 'Let me have a look.'

'No!' Gil-galad said sharply, but too late; the upper half of the Captain's body was bared to her view. She could not suppress a small gasp. 

The shoulder which had caught the blow meant for the King was bandaged, but below the white linnen, a large area of Tárion's chest was covered in scar tissue, in some parts pale and stretched, uneven and puckered in others. Burn marks, plainly. Some time during this warrior's unknown past, something had scorched him most horribly, eating away so much of his skin and flesh that by rights he ought to have died. Yet he had lived to suffer an agony that no one - not even an orc - should be required to endure. Almost against her will, Galadriel touched one of the scars with a fingertip.

Fire blazed inside her, searing through her with a force that held her body rigid for several heartbeats and took her breath away. 'Remove your finger,' she heard Gil-galad say as from afar. But she was struggling already, and with an effort broke the contact. 

__

Surely that is not what you feel when you touch him? The question spilled out of her on an upsurge of emotion. 

__

He learned me to turn it into another kind of fire... the King replied. Then, his mind snapped shut and he said with the voice of his body: 'He cannot die. I was convinced I would never wish to...' He put the sheet back in place, his hands not quite steady. 'But now that I am faced with the possibility of seeing him go...'

Never before had she heard Gil-galad speak so incoherently. He was about to break, so much was clear. Galadriel's gaze went to the small cabinet of carved wood on the other side of the bed.

Gil-galad saw it. 'They are not there anymore,' he told her. 'I removed them as soon as I entered this room.' An almost inaudible click, and the inlaid doors openend, enabling her to see the velvet-clad emptiness inside. 

Galadriel was not surprised. 'You consider using one of them to heal him,' she said flatly. Nárya, the Ring of Fire, doubtlessly.

'And you believe it will be our undoing.'

'You know the truth of that.'

'Sauron is not almighty.'

She rose to face the King. 'He is a Maia. He bested my brother, who was instructed by the Valar and whose eyes beheld the glory of the Trees, in a combat of song and spells.'

He did not bat an eye. 'Finrod Felagund was under the Curse of Mandos. That is why he failed. But the Doom of the Noldor ended when Angband was destroyed and Morgoth cast into the Void.'

'Sauron was Morgoths greatest servant, and he has grown in might. He forged the One Ring to control all others. Including yours - and mine.'

Gil-galad gazed at his Captain, whose face seemed to have changed imperceptably: it was no longer peaceful. He turned back to Galadriel. 'Would you forbid me to use it, Keeper of Nenya? Would you not rather link your powers to mine? Two are stronger than one.'

'You are the High King,' Galadriel replied calmly. 'And I forbid naught. How, pray, could I who failed to beg Celebrimbor to destroy them, tell you what to do in this matter? But' - and she took a step towards the door - 'If you think I will aid you in this, you do not know me wel enough. I know of better ways to use whatever power is within me.' 

And she left, her mind concentrating on what she could and should do, if the King succumbed to temptation.

(TBC) 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Tárion

__

He was back in Gondolin. It was night. Turmoil raged in the streets, the white walls rang with the clamour of metal, hoarse shouts and shrill cries assailed his ears, the air rippled with the heat of dragonfire. The smoke of the burning trees in the once fair gardens, the stench of foul beasts and the smell of blood filled his nose. On the Great Square, fearless Ecthelion fought with Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, piercing him with the sharp spike of his mighty helmet, while the monster's flaming thongs coiled around him. When they tumbled into the King's Fountain, the water hissed hideously. The Balrog drowned, but so did Ecthelion. 

Together with the other members of the Guard he shielded King Turgon, who stood between Glingal and Belthil, the images of Laurelin and Telperion he had wrought with his own hands. All were prepared to die in his defence. 

'Great is the fall of Gondolin!' Turgon cried, and those who heard it shuddered. 'Evil have I brought on the Flower of the Plain despite Ulmo's warning, and there is no more hope in my heart for my beloved.'

'We shall not fail you!' his warriors cried, clashing their weapons. 

Turgon's voice rose above the noise. 'Fight not against doom. Seek safety in flight, if you may. I will strike no more blows. Go, ere it is too late, and leave me to burn!' He threw down his sword and his crown, a fey King in a doomed city.(1)

But the members of his household Guard stubbornly refused to leave if he would not lead them. Then, at last, the King turned towards the youngest of his guards. 'You go, Tárion. Seek out Tuor, and Glorfindel. Follow their lead. Help them protect my people.' 

He shook his head. 'Let me die with you, sire.'

'I am your King. I command you to go.'

Tárion could not tell whence his courage came, with so many of Turgon's warriors listening: 'You threw down your crown. You cannot make me leave.' 

The other guards seemed to hold their breath, but Turgon's face crumpled, and indeed he looked like a king no more. 'Do you want me to beg, then? Do you wish me to drop to my knees before you?' 

It was the catch in his voice that broke the young guard's resolve, for it told him that the Lord of Gondolin meant every word of it. And he could not let Turgon demean himself so. 'No,' he murmured. 'Please. Do not kneel before me.'

'Then swear that you will live,' the King urged.

'I swear it.' Blinking, no longer able to withstand that gaze veiled in doom, Tárion turned away from Turgon's great sigh of relief and left him to seek out Tuor and Glorfindel. Soon, he was running - and why should he not, now that he would not be taking a stand for his liege?

Suddenly he realised he was lying on his back

__

Had he known the price of his promise he would have remained defiant until the end. As it was, he hurried away through the noise and the destruction and the smoke that wiped out the stars, grief bursting the seams of his soul. 

Someone was bending over him, pulling back his shroud, though he could not recall having died. Through closed eyes he saw a white-hot flame leap from his chest at the merest touch of a finger.

__

The other images were more vague, the roars and shrieks and wails more subdued, the smells less offensive. Yet they were no less horrible. 

He saw how Tuor rescued Idril and Eärendil from the claws of treacherous Maeglin, he directed women children toward the secret passage leading out of Gondolin, he wielded his sword with deadly precision against the yrch crossing his path; his eyes, stinging with smoke and tears, discovered the bodies of his mother and brother lying in the street, torn by Morgoth's fell wolves; they saw the White Tower wreathed in fire, with King Turgon on the topmost pinnacle, writhing in a circle of flames, and they witnessed the fall of both. And hearing Idril weep forlornly in the arms of her husband, it seemed to Tárion that this agony was worse than the death wound he would have received, had he not promised to live. 

Yet he knew it was not so, though he could not say how he knew. 

He heard his name. 'Tárion.' Was it Glorfindel? When the Lord of the Golden Flower found him he had been gazing motionlessly at the red glare of the sky where the gleam of the White Tower should have been. But he could not move, though he knew he had to, if he did not want to perish in the ring of fire surrounding Gondolin the beloved. 

'Tárion!' the voice repeated pleadingly. It was a voice he loved, but it did not belong to Glorfindel. It seemed an eternity before his eyes agreed to open. When they did, the ring of fire was still there.

***

****

Gildor

The attitude of the Ciryatur was exasperating. Gildor was perfectly sure that the dark shapes he espied on the flanks and in the crannies and crevices of the southern Ered Luin were enemy soldiers, but the Númenorean admiral stubbornly maintained that they had to be the High King's scouts. He must be mistaken; they were much too numerous for that. And worse still: to Gildor's perception the blackness enveloping these figures had nothing to do with their outward appearance, for it seemed to spill from inside them. Yet he was unable to convey his foreboding to this hardheaded mortal. The Ciryatur had sent one of his own men up to the crow's nest to survey the southern shore and the lands beyond, as if to tell his Elvish lookout that his kind might have the keener sight, but that it took a Man to assess a situation. Folly, Gildor thought: why not use the resources you have?

When he suggested that the Ciryator send troops to discover what went on in the mountains the admiral refused, though his fleet was large enough to spare a contingent. But if the Elf insisted on exploring the countryside, he would lend him a sloop. No doubt there would be some doughty sailors willing to row him ashore, and he knew at least one Elf who could also handle an oar. And with that, the Ciryatur strode away. 

'Why does he not heed my advice?' Gildor asked Glorfindel, who had remained silent during the exchange. 'Surely you, too, can feel those are servants of the Dark?'

'I can,' confirmed his companion, his gaze never leaving the blue mountains. 'But the Ciryatur is a proud man who feels the blood of Elros Tar Minyatur - diluted though it may be - course through his veins whenever he confronts the Eldar. He will not let you counsel him. Nor, as I deem, will his men follow you of their own accord, even if you accept the offer of a sloop.' _And why should they, Gildor Inglorion? What are you to them but a fair face, a graceful body and a mind unclouded by the awareness of death?In other words, a lovely child?_

'A sloop... I could just as well swim,' Gildor muttered, glaring vainly at the admiral's receding back. 'Would you jump after me if I threw myself into the Gulf?' He laughed at his own question, suddenly filled with a strange exhilaration at the thought of immersing his body in the waters of Middle-earth.

'It depends,' mused Glorfindel. 'If you did it to show the sailors from Númenor what the seals of Aman taught you, I would be content to watch. If, on the other hand, you planned to seek trouble before it finds you, my responsibility might get the better of me.' He smiled. 'Not that you could not outswim me any time... I would have to count on your prowess if I foundered.'

He was correct. Glorfindel was an Elda of many virtues, both of body and mind, but Gildor had learned to brave the surf before he was a year old, thanks to a grandfather who believed that challenges existed for the sake of being answered. The decision was made swiftly. Throwing back his head he leapt effortlessly onto the rail and dived, his fair hair whipping in the wind. 

Before Gildor reached the water he found himself thinking it was good that his sword was strapped to his back instead of belted at his waist, where it would have hindered his movements considerably. The next moment, his body pierced the surface of the Gulf like a spear, and the wet chill engulfed him and clawed at him until he beat it off with his mind and the movement of his limbs. He swam under water for a while, his eyes registering various species of fish and other sea-life in the blue-green depths before he ran out of air and had to emerge.

The admiral's vessel, never slowing its pace, was well ahead of him, he saw. People were gesturing excitedly at the rail, but Glorfindel was not among them. A glance the other way told Gildor that he would not have the time for a proper search if he did not want to be sent to the bottom by the next member of the war convoy, which was looming too close for comfort. He began to swim shorewards. Once he had reached the safety of the shallows and looked back, the hulls of several other ships obscured his view of the vessel he had just abandoned. The best thing he could do was to swim ashore and watch out for Glorfindel. If the other Elf had, indeed, followed him. 

Suddenly he felt far from easy, not for his own sake, but because he had a vision of Glorfindel, trapped between Númenorean ships, unable to get away. 

A voice echoed through his mind. _At times, you can be a remarkable fool_ , it said. _You surpass even me in doing the unexpected. Glorfindel is truly broad-minded, to accept your company._

The voice clearly belonged to his grandfather Finrod. It almost seemed as if he had been watching his grandson's antics and was speaking to him from the other side of the Great Sea.

  


1)Most of Turgon's words up to this point are found in The Fall of Gondolin, The Book of Lost Tales 2, HoMe 2


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Celebrian

They had taken the wounded Captain to the King's apartments, Celebrian was told. She briefly wondered why, but on second thought it would be the best place for one severely wounded; there, he was least likely to be disturbed. The guards flanking the door did not even challenge her when she showed them the jar of salve she had brought along as a pretext. 

The anteroom, mainly filled with chairs, was empty. She knew that of the two doors in the back wall, the left one gave access to a parlour. So the right one had to lead to the King's private chambers. Quickly slipping inside, she found herself in a corridor lit by softly glowing lamps that made the flowers and grass depicted on the floor tiles come alive, and across this gently waving spring meadow of baked and glazed clay she proceeded on soft feet to the only door that stood ajar. 

Through the opening, she could see part of a bed, and beside it the kneeling figure of the High King of the Noldor. He seemed to be speaking to the person, undoubtedly the Captain of his Guard, who lay in the bed, showing him something, or holding something up. A small object that sparkled like fire and cast a red glow on his hand. 

Gil-galad's voice was soft, but Celebrian's ears were keen enough to catch his every word. 

'You have to let me do this,' he said. 'You saved my life, now let me save yours.'

The answer was either inaudible or not given, though the Captain could hardly be dead if the King was speaking to him.

'So you want me to believe,' Gil-galad replied, lowering the arm with the glowing object until it rested on the bedcovers. 'But the pallor of your face tells me there is little life left in you.'

Again, Celebrian heard only silence, but she saw Gil-galad shake his head. In despair, if she was any judge of gestures, and suddenly she felt a peculiar apprehension. 

'Perish!' the King said, speaking louder than before. 'Then let me fall prey to the Enemy, if that is the price. I love you, Tárion, and I do not care what buying your life will cost me. Do you think I will not perish if you die?'

In the doorway, Celebrian felt her legs grow weak. A King should love all his subjects, be they laundry maids, cooks, or shipwrights, warriors, or sages, but the love that made Gil-galad's voice shake was not of that kind. She knew it, because she recognised it. The love her own heart held for the King was no different - except that it was doomed to remain forever unfulfilled. 

So this was what her mother had tried to tell her without saying it. _I want to die_ , Celebrian thought. _If you can die for love, my star of radiance, so can I._

'No.'

Startled, she took a step backward, thinking for an instant that she was the one spoken to. Her gown rustled; surely the sound was loud enough to be caught by Gil-galad's ears. Poised to back away from the door, she waited for him to turn his head. 

He did not. Instead, she heard the wounded Elf in the bed - _Gil-galad's lover_ , she made herself say in her thoughts - repeat his audible 'No', perhaps summoning all the strength left in him to warn, to convince, to talk reason into the blinded mind of the King. 

'I vow to you that I shall not die,' she heard Tárion say, his voice seeming to float above the bed, detached from his body. 'If you doubt me, beloved, remember that I have done so before. Or let me wield the Ring and imperil myself. My soul still holds the memory of burning. It may enhance my power.' Despite his words, he began to falter, yet he managed to add: 'And remember that I was well acquainted with Celebrimbor, who forged this ring, and learned something about the workings of his mind.' 

The Ring of Fire. It dawned on Celebrian that she was trespassing in more than matters of the heart alone. She ought to go. But she could not help herself, she wanted to know -

At that moment, Gil-galad did look up and turned towards the doorway. Still affected by what she had heard and seen, she did not withdraw fast enough, and he saw her. He froze. Then, he stood, slowly and almost menacingly, and came towards her. 

Clutching her jar of salve, Celebrian decided not to flee. Instead, she asked: 'Can I come in?'

***

****

Glorfindel

By the time they put the sloop out, the Ciryatur's vessel was well east of the place where Gildor had jumped ship. With swift strokes, three Númenorean volunteers and Glorfindel rowed the boat to the southern coast of the Gulf of Lune. Right there, it did not look particularly accessible, with a steep, rocky slope on which sorry looking bushes clung tenaciously to thin patches of soil. When the keel touched ground, the Elf picked up his companion's cloak and the bag of supplies of from the bottom of the sloop and leapt lightly overboard Thanking the rowers he began to wade towards the rocks. 

A splash made him look back. One of the Númenoreans, a tall young lad with short brown hair, was standing behind the boat, pushing it out into the Gulf. But he did not follow it to climb aboard again. Instead, he waved his fellow sailors goodbye and turned to face Glorfindel. 'Do you mind if I come along, my lord?' 

If he thought there was a chance that the Elf would mind, he could have asked earlier. But in fact Glorfindel welcomed his company. He remembered the youth's name: Beregar(1), and that he hailed from Romenna, but that was all. Gildor had spent more time with him, and perhaps that was why Beregar came along. He decided not to inquire if the young man had asked permission; that was something between him and the Ciryatur. 

'It pleases me to have you for a companion, Beregar,' he replied. 'Especially as you are a sailor, and may be able to tell how far away we are from the place where Gildor swam ashore.'

'Given the speed of the ships, less than two miles, I think,' Beregar answered. 'The fastest way to find it will be partly through the water, I think. But do you believe he will wait, my lord?'

Glorfindel suppressed a sigh. If he were able to predict the younger Elf's every action, he would have prevented him from leaving the ship in the first place. Still, he could not imagine him setting out for the mountains in soaking discomfort. 

'We will go back along the shore,' he declared.

They were both correct. In many places, they made more headway by wading through the shallows than by negotiating the rocks, and Gildor had not moved beyond his landing place. He had spread out his wet clothes on a strip of beach and was sitting naked on a boulder, his face drinking in the rays of the afternoon sun. They approached from the east, and as Glorfindel halted just out of elvish earshot, he did not suspect anything. 

Putting a finger against his lips, Glorfindel took Gildor's cloak in both hands and began to move silently towards him. If the younger Elf had been more experienced he would have been alert enough to notice something, but living in Valinor was not conducive to watchfulness, except when you loved hunting, which Gildor did not. Right now, he was stretching himself lazily and with visible pleasure. And so, coming up behind the boulder, Glorfindel was able to throw the cloak over the careless figure, jump at him and pull him down. 

To his credit, the victim put up more resistance than expected, but because of the cloak wrapped about his eyes his kicks and blows were hardly effective. Soon enough, Glorfindel sat astride him, using his full weight to pin him to the ground. He peeled some folds of cloth from Gildor's fallen face. 'Thank the Valar that I am not the danger you went to seek,' he told him. 

'No,' Gildor shot back wryly. 'You are the danger that found me. And you are quite ponderous. Could you please stop taking my breath away?'

Without budging one inch, Glorfindel caught his gaze and held it, though it took him some effort not to laugh. Eventually, Gildor coughed briefly. 'All right,' he conceded. 'Point taken.' 

When Glorfindel released him, Gildor extricated himself from the cloak and rose. Seeing the young Númenorean approach, he raised an eyebrow. 

'So you didn't come alone. Did the Ciryatur send Beregar along?'

'I don't know.' Perhaps he had, Glorfindel mused, to know what those Elves were up to. 

Meanwhile, Beregar had halted, looking a little strange, his gaze directed at Gildor, though not at his face. 

'Gildor,' Glorfindel said softly, 'perhaps you could assume a semblance of modesty?'

'Why? I don't think my clothes have dried yet... oh. I see.' Gildor picked up the cloak and wrapped it around himself. 'So, what's the next lesson?'

'Now that we are here anyway,' Glorfindel said, 'we could perhaps take a detour to acquaint ourselves with the Ered Luin.'

1)taken from the Tale of Aldarion and Erendis, where it is the name of Erendis' father 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Gil-galad

 

Had Celebrian truly just arrived? Or was she merely feigning innocence, while in reality she had been eavesdropping for the Valar knew how long? Reading her face was useless; other maidens would probably have betrayed themselves but this was Galadriel's daughter, and at this moment she looked as stern and inscrutable as her mother. 

'You may come in,' Gil-galad replied. The exchange with Tárion, interrupted at such a crucial moment, had left him agitated; he could only hope that his tone was as measured as he intended it to be. 'What is your errand, my lady?'

She showed him the jar in her hand. 'The chief healer told me to take this salve to your wounded - captain, my lord King.'

Not so well schooled as her mother, after all: able to control her facial expression, but not yet her speech. The slight hesitation between 'wounded' and 'captain' sufficed to tell Gil-galad that she had heard enough to know what Tárion was to him. And worse, that she knew he considered using the Ring of Fire, considered to bare, not only his own innermost mind but the secrets of all and everything in his Kingdom this mind had ever touched, to the wielder of the One Ring. And to what end? To save his bedmate? There were things no one could excuse even if they were done for love. 

How much of a liability was Celebrian? Her tone had slipped; next time it could be her tongue.

He decided to be blunt. 'What exactly did you overhear?'

She took a step back, apparently just as dismayed as he was at having been found out. 'I know what you intend to do. And why.'

The King's fist tightened around the Ring until it dug painfully into his palm. He was loath to defend himself by saying that he hesitated, that the final decision had yet to be made. It would sound too much like a subterfuge. 

They both jumped when a ragged voice from the bed said: 'That he wants to do it does not mean he will do it. And I tell you, my lady, that he will not.'

'But you would!' Celebrian replied, 'and who is to tell if that is any better? For you are his... his...' An odd sound escaped her, and in a shrill voice she added: 'It is wrong!' And with that, she wheeled and fled the bedchamber, her hand still clutching the forgotten jar of salve. Not that Tárion needed it. The previous one was far from empty.

Gil-galad realised that she fled because she was on the verge of bursting into tears. He wondered what t was that was wrong in Celebrian's eyes. Slowly he turned back to his lover and took his place beside the bed again. Tárion's eyes fluttered open at the sound, but he did not speak.

'Yes, you would do it,' Gil-galad said pensively. 'There is nothing you would not do if you considered it your duty, even to the point of killing yourself. But it will not happen.'

'Indeed it will not,' the wounded Captain said after a long silence. 'For I do not intend to die; I can assure you that much. I am an Elda, Arto, not one of the Engwar(1). I can feel that my body has begun to heal; you will be surprised yet.' He actually managed a smile, one of the rare ones reserved for Gil-galad alone. The smile that had been the spark to kindle his love when this Second Age of the Sun was newly born and Tárion had offered his services to the High King of the Noldor. 

The recovery was all the more remarkable as the healer who had told him the Captain's condition was critical was also of the Eldar, and usually correct in her assertions. But the love of his life seemed to possess an extraordinarily resilience, Gil-galad mused. As if his promise to Turgon of Gondolin, the ancient promise to survive, spilled over into the next era. Or as if a promise given to one High King could be passed on to his successor. 

He squeezed Tárions hand, willing his strength to flow into the body that so often had felt like an extension of his own.

The next moment, he was pulled out of his memories and reveries. 'Do you realise that she is in love with you?' Tárion asked softly.

'You mean, Celebrian?'

'You don't seriously think I am referring to her mother, do you?'

Celebrian? It would explain much. 'I am sorry,' Gil-galad murmured involuntarily, as if she was still there and could be apologised to.

'Why? Because you return her love?' 

'Now I believe that you will live,' the King said with undisguised relief. 'You would not dare to mock me if you were going to die, Valanya.'

 

***

****

 

Beregar

 

He definitely did not feel up to his task. _Keep an eye on those Elves_ , the Ciryatur had said _. I do not quite trust them,_ adding: _I need to know why this Gildor insists on going to the_ _Ered_ _Luin_. However, he had not divulged the reasons behind his distrust, and the young sailor had no idea to what exactly he was supposed to pay attention. Moreover, he had little experience with Elves, and none at all with distrusting them. His parents both admired the Eldar, and he had grown up believing they were good, true and beautiful. And wise. But if the wisdom was doubtful, as the behaviour of Gildor seemed to indicate, what did that say about the rest? 

Though they were undeniably beautiful. All over, as he had ample occasion to notice before Gildor covered himself. And the short bout of wrestling that had ended in the naked Elf's defeat stirred something within him, something akin to desire, though it did not arouse him. He was not sure if that was a good sign. He wondered if the Elves were truly good. They daunted him. 

They headed south for the Blue Mountains, whose flanks rose steeply not far behind the shore; the Gulf had broken the range in two at the end of the First Age, when the world was changed. The day was almost done. The sun was setting, her last rays painting the barren peaks in hues of orange and gold that belied the colour in their name. It was distance that turned mountains blue, Beregar knew, and as far as he was concerned, these here could have remained that way. He was a mariner, not a mountaineer. 

That night, the Elves tried to draw them into their conversation. But claiming fatigue - not at all feigned, as they kept up a pace that would have broken an older or lesser man - he lay down on the other side of their small fire. They spoke softly, in a Quenya unlike that of his homeland, and despite the Ciryatur's orders he did not attempt to follow it. The slow cadence of their sentences, sung rather than spoken, rippled towards him like waves until he felt like an infant rocked in a cradle. He had a vision of a high, everwhite mountain that was not the Meneltarma, of a land with lush green meadows and sun-dappled forests, of a great city with diamond-dust in the streets, and of a slender white tower pointing heavenwards. It could have been a dream, yet he felt more awake than ever, and what he saw looked too real, too sharply contoured, too vivid to be a dream. 

He could not recall at what point the vision faded, but when he awoke next morning, the first thing he saw was Glorfindel's face. The Elf smiled. 'Did you sleep well?'

'Yes, thank you,' Beregar said. It was true; he felt completely rested, and ready to run all day - ahead of the Elves, if need be. He wondered if his vision of last night had anything to do with it, if the Elves had perhaps refilled his body with strength. They ought to be capable of such a thing, if what he had heard was correct.

Gildor emerged from behind Glorfindel, stretching himself lazily. 'What do you think, Beregar? Will the fleet reach Mithlond today?' he asked.

Beregar scanned the overcast sky. As it refused to give away the position of the sun, he could not check the exact direction of the wind. 

'Southwest to West,' Gildor said. Had he memorised the constellations of last night, before the clouds came?

'In that case, our ships will certainly reach the Havens today,' replied Beregar with some confidence. 

They left after having emptied the bag of supplies, which meant they would have to hunt today, and find fresh water. 

'We will have to tread more carefully here,' said Glorfindel by the time they reached the foothills. 'If your eyes did not deceive you yesterday, Gildor, there are enemy spies roaming these hills - in addition to the winged ones overhead.' 

Beregar wondered why they halted here, as the landscape had not changed markedly during the last few miles. With a frown, he eyed the crebain dotting the sky. 'Should we not seek cover, then?' he suggested hesitantly. He pointed at the tree-clad slope, hundred yards ahead and to the left of them.

Gildor looked around. 'Some birds can easily hide among the trees. And they have been watching us for some time already.'

'Indeed they have,' murmured Glorfindel, who did not stare at the sky either. Before he knew of it, two pairs of Elvish hands pulled Beregar behind a rock jutting out a bit across their path, and from there into a narrow gully half overgrown with what looked like brambles. 

'What's that,' he began, ' why are you-'

'Ssh,' Glorfindel wispered. 'Some of the shrubs here have eyes. Speak softly. They may have ears as well.'

(TBC)

 

1)the Sickly, one of the Elvish names for mortals. 

 


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Galadriel

 

She held Nenya in the palm of her hand, sensing the power coiled inside it, faint and veiled, as it would ever be unless worn on a finger. She felt the strong pull of the Sea. _I am the voice of true depth,_ it sang _. I am freedom. I am the way home._ _Come!_ But her home was barred to her. So she concentrated on other things, trying to sense the other rings. Ring. Would the King use Nárya? Galadriel had left him knowing that her very presence had turned into a provocation that would precipitate folly rather than curb it. Yet she was far from certain he would embrace the chance to prove himself wise in her absence. 

Casting about, though, she sensed little of the Ring of Fire; he had not put it on then. But she did not even have the time to feel a careful relief before she encountered something else: the vague turmoil of a mind attuned to hers. Her daughter's. 

She frowned. On her return to the infirmary they had told her that Celebrian had left. To seek out Gil-galad in his apartments? And finding him, had she found out about him and his Captain? That would explain why she was so upset. 

Perhaps she ought to speak to her daughter? But acknowledging that it would be better if she waited for Celebrian to broach this thorny subject of her own accord, Galadriel shielded her mind against her daughter's presence. She had to put a rein on her desire to interfere with Celebrian's weal and woe regardless of her daughter's own wishes. And one way of doing this was to avoid temptation. 

Twilight was upon them. Soon, supper would be set, but Galadriel decided that eating in the main dining hall would not bring her the peace she wanted. So she requested for the meal to be served in her own room. It was there Gil-galad visited her, long after nightfall. He had calmed considerably, which told her his lover would survive without the aid of means not justified by any end. 

He was also honest enough to tell her that Tárion had sided with her on the subject of using the Ring. Galadriel was hardly surprised, for she realised there was more to this Captain than met even the mind's eye. Underneath the agony of his burning flesh she had touched on a serpent-wise caution, possibly innate, though more likely hard-won in one possessing a fiery Noldorin _fëa_ , that counterbalanced Gil-galad's more straightforward attitude (though the King was by no means as impetuous as he liked others to believe). She resolved to deepen her too superficial knowledge about this survivor from Gondolin, to whom the High King of the Noldor was so discreetly but inseparably bound. 

They sat for a while in mutual silence, their thoughts brushing without evolving into language, until Galadriel sensed there was something else he would speak of. Or someone. Celebrian.

'She knows,' Gil-galad sighed, without having to explain what it was she knew. 'And this is the kind of knowledge that consumes like fire. Having felt her gaze on me for some time I would never willingly have been so cruel. But she overheard us.' He rose and walked towards one of the windows on the night, gazing at the starry darkness outside. 'Should you not have told her that we are too closely related to wed, even under the best of circumstances? Would not a ban be easier to accept than what seems a cruel streak of fate - the doom of love unrequited?' 

To this, Galadriel could not agree, for none knew better than she did that sometimes a ban was almost impossibly hard on the banned. But as it was irrelevant, she shook her head. Using the Quenya form of his father-name she replied: 'You are my brother's grandson, Artanáro(1), and indeed close kin. But as Celebrian knows well enough that it is not too close, such a warning would have been to no avail.' She folded her hands in her lap. 'There even was a time, before I discovered the bond between you and your... Tárion, when I would have applauded such a match. The High King must needs have an heir. As things are now, there will be no one to succeed you if you are killed.' 

Gil-galad frowned, as if he suspected her of wanting to exchange an embarrassing topic for two even more unpleasant ones: the inevitable barrenness of his union, and his bad habit of endangering himself in battle. 'In times of war the Eldar do not wed or beget children,' he reminded her, though he knew she was capable of disregarding that custom if it suited her judgement of the situation. 'Right now, my chief concern is for your daughter. Celebrian seemed distraught when she ran from my room. Have you seen her since? To be frank, I did not have the courage to face her after this.'

Galadriel shook her head, a tendril of fear coiling around her. 'It seemed better not to touch the sore spot.' She stood, reaching for her daughter's presence. 

All she sensed was a residue of grief.

When they knocked at Celebrian's door, no one answered. No one they asked had seen her at dinner. None were able to tell her where she had gone. But it was not long before they discovered that her horse was missing from the stables.

 

***

****

 

Gildor

 

It was gratifying to know he had noticed the eyes no later than Glorfindel had, while the mortal remained unaware of the danger. Though the older Elf's lesson - as well-deserved as it was humiliating - no longer rankled, the thought of the stupidity he had displayed yesterday still had the power to sting. He pulled the unresisting youth further back into their gully, which ended in a narrow crevice between two rocks. Closer to the path, Glorfindel laid a hand on his sword-hilt. 

'Let go of me!' the Númenorean hissed. 'My cloak has caught on a thornbush. And what on earth are we hiding for?'

Without looking back, Glorfindel made a gesture with his free hand to indicate they should keep their silence. Using _osanwe-kenta_ (2) he told Gildor that he did not know if the eyes belonged to friends or foes. Would they be able to defend themselves back there, should the need arise? 

Inspecting the crevice Gildor saw that it was narrow, but deep enough for three or four people, and that it was quite dark. Any enemy dim-witted enough to stick his head inside would be dead meat. He told Glorfindel as much; was he not going to join them?

The answer turned out to be no. While Beregar disengaged his cloak from the last of the thorns and allowed himself to be guided into the crevice, Glorfindel stepped onto the path they had just left and began to walk back towards the spot where they had first seen the eyes. 

__

You two stay here! he sent, distinctly and clearly. _If I do not return, go directly to Mithlond. And be wary._

The boldness of his move took Gildor's breath away. Glorfindel had his sword, but even in the hand of a seasoned warrior of Gondolin, a blade was no a match for a well-aimed arrow, and he wore no mail. Was he relying on the effect the unveiled powers of the twice embodied would have on those who had never encountered them? 

As the other disappeared beyond the bend Gildor reluctantly withdrew to the entrance of the crevice, watching for any sign of an unveiled lord of the Firstborn. He had seen enough rehoused Eldar, his grandfather Finrod not the least of them, to know what it looked like. Surely the sheen would be clearly visible against the dark grey sky. 

It did not come. He could hear noises: footsteps, a great deal of indistinct speech, a muted cry - of surprise, he thought - followed by what sounded like a shuffle. Then, a short silence, more noises and a kind of vague babble, and footsteps again, dying away. Nothing from Glorfindel. He waited, chafing, until all he could hear was the rustle of the wind in the bushes, and his own heartbeat. Her almost jumped when it was followed by a sudden, sharp crack of thunder and soon after by the first splash of fat raindrops onto leaves and rocks.

'What happened?' whispered Beregar behind him.

'I wish I knew...' Gildor replied, slightly bewildered, and unable to suppress the feeling that somehow, Glorfindel had played a trick on him. Or had he delivered himself into the hands of enemies for the purpose of protecting his companions? 'I fail to understand why he chose to confront them,' he went on. 'We could have defended ourselves here.'

'No doubt.' The young mortal laughed curtly. 'But perhaps they would have had the leisure to wait until we succumbed to thirst. Being of the Engwar(3) no doubt I would have yielded first - but I bet that not even the Eldar can make it till the end of Arda without an occasional sip of water.'

Gildor turned to study Beregar's face, unsure what to make of his tone. But his mien was not very helpful either. 'So what do we do now?' the young man went on, raising his voice above the loud downpour.

'Follow the trail.'

'Are you sure? I seem to remember that Lord Glorfindel told us to go to Mithlond.'

__

You have mind-speech? Gildor asked curiously, reminding himself not to underestimate mortals in general, or this one in particular. His grandfather's high opinion of them was not entirely based on mental generosity and wishful thinking. And this was a scion of the Edain of old.

Beregar's brow creased, as if he tried to follow a barely known language. 'I caught his meaning,' he said at last with a shrug that seemed to mask amusement.

Gildor smiled, his cheerfulness gaining the upper hand. 'And do you believe we should do as he thinks best and leave him to his fate, my friend?'

 

(TBC)

 

1)Yes, I adhere to the Shibboleth of Fëanor ( where Gil-galad is the son of Orodreth, who in his turn is the son of Angrod). 

2)Quenya, meaning 'mind-speech'. 

3)Quenya, meaning 'sickly' 


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Gil-galad

 

The King cast a glance into his bedchamber to see if all was still well with Tárion, supposing him to be asleep. But he was not.

'Something is amiss,' he said, even as Gil-galad was about to close the door again. His eyes were luminescent points among the shadows in the room. 'Why is the lady Galadriel so upset?' Seeing his lover's raised eyebrows he added: 'She touched me long enough to create rapport. In time, it will fade if not reinforced. But right now, I can sense her clearly.' 

'Do not worry,' Gil-galad said evasively. 'Or it will delay your recovery.'

'Celebrian,' was all Tárion said after a brief silence, sighing almost imperceptibly. 'Then do not fret about me, or it may delay your recovery of her. And when you find her... handle her with care.'

'I will,' Gil-galad replied. 'Tárion?'

'Yes?'

'I love you.' And with Tárion's smile to accompany him he left, closing the door. He ran to the courtyard, mounted his patiently waiting Nimroch, and rode.

Galadriel waited outside the palace, probably less patiently, but keeping as tight a rein on her fear as she did on her nervous palfrey. She had changed into a knee-long tunic, leggings of soft leather, and riding boots. Four guards and two scouts would accompany them. Gil-galad found himself wishing that Tárion was among the guards, if only because his night view was amazing even for an Elda. 

'Southwest,' Galadriel said. 'Towards the Ered Luin.'

'How far?' he inquired while the search party set into motion, the scouts riding ahead to look for tracks, the guards flanking them to watch out for enemies. 

'Too far to sense her precise whereabouts,' Galadriel replied in a measured voice, just when he thought she was not going to answer.

'She did indeed pass by here,' one of the scouts announced presently, raising his voice barely enough to be audible. No need to cry out their errand, in case the wrong ears were listening.

'Would that the moon were full,' the King heard one of the guards mutter. As it was, they had to go by the light of a crescent, and that of the stars. 

'It could have been worse,' he told the speaker. Though not much. And if this was not his fault, nothing else was, either. But he knew too well that he did bear considerable blame for Sauron's conquests and their present predicament. Not having committed Celebrimbor's grave errors was scant excuse for failing to discover the true nature of Annatar, Lord of Gifts and Corruption, in time to prevent disaster. 

True enough, he had sent Tárion to Eregion to spy on both Celebrimbor and Annatar; possessing his dead father's skills as a gold and silversmith the Captain could easily pose as a craftsman, even though he seldom applied those talents and preferred painting and drawing. But it had been too late. By the time the High King's spy reached Ost-in-Edhil, Annatar had left for his secret forge in Orodruin. And Celebrimbor's tongue could not betray more than its owner knew, which was preciously little. King he might be, Gil-galad said to himself, but his policy had been flawed. It still was, for he could not bring himself to destroy the two Elven Rings in his possession. That Galadriel could not discard hers either was cold comfort. 

They were ascending a slope, and well above the level of the palace and the harbour, when Gil-galad was jerked out of his self-deprecatory mood. 

'My lord King,' said another guard, who was staring back instead of ahead. 'Look, over there in the Gulf. The ships.'

The Númenorean ships, anchored in mid-stream with lanterns in top, were closer by than Gil-galad had realised. Soon they would reach Mithlond, probably before noon the next day. Their admiral would have to be received with all respect due to him and his liege, Tar Minastir of Númenor. Including a personal and warm welcome by the one who had requested his presence in the first place - the High King of the Noldor. 

If they would not find Celebrian before daybreak, and barring the possibility that this admiral would be an easy-going and forgiving man, something might take a wrong turn - be it the elf-maiden's fate or the war against Sauron. 

Will I be ruthless enough to turn back in time, if the need arises? Gil-galad wondered.

 

***

****

 

Glorfindel

 

Being captured had not been a part of his original plan. The men - for men they were, not _yrch -_ had come out of hiding to search for him and his companions. Watching them from behind the rock that shielded him Glorfindel saw there were only five of them. Two had bows, but no arrows notched to the strings, so they did not hunt to kill, most likely. And if they judged that five against three was worth a try they were either brave enough, or overconfident. Who were they? Even if they turned out to be the Dark Lord's servants these men, being mortals, could not be irredeemably evil like the _yrch_ were. 

Behind him, Gildor and Beregar were talking entirely too loudly. Glorfindel signaled for them to subdue their voices, and stepped into full view. Walking slowly towards the men he spread his arms, with upturned palms to indicate that he meant them no harm. 

The five halted, while he moved forward step by step, taking in their faces. Four of the five were young, two beardless; the fifth had grey at his temples. They were small, between five and six foot; he stood more than a full head taller. Their hair, cropped short, was dark and lank, their skin light brown, their faces were grim, even angry - but he could detect little malice in their eyes. They spoke softly to each other, and though he did not know the language he could read most of the thoughts underlying the words, and snatch up some of the images flashing through their heads. 

They recognized him for an Elf. This one did not look like a scout either, their thoughts went. Did he and the other one belong together; had they first found the wife - Glorfindel perceived the image of an Elf-maid with silver hair - roaming alone through the wilderness, and was this the husband? But this one had no horse, nor was he alone.

Glorfindel stopped dead. These men had come upon a lonely Elf-woman, here in the foothills of the Blue Mountains? What had they done to her?

Perhaps they could take him captive as well, the men deliberated. If his comrades should come to his rescue, they could be dealt with - this was followed by the image of a drawn bow - but apparently the other two had turned tail. Yes, they ought to take him. Their master would like that.

Did they mean the Dark Lord Sauron, Gorthaur of old, master of werewolves? Was that where they had taken their captive? Glorfindel wondered in dismay. 

The mortals moved closer, very carefully, as if he were some kind of wild animal that could shy and flee any moment. The distance between them was less than twenty yards, less than eighteen - he had to make up his mind. If he used his powers in self-defence and swept them off their feet, they might never willingly tell him where this Elf-maid was. And being who he was Glorfindel refused to coerce them into speaking, nor would he rip anything from their minds that they were unwilling to divulge. 

He took his decision and waited for them to reach him, outwardly calm, yet inwardly not without apprehension. Mighty as he was, he remained vulnerable to physical injury and abuse. Though he mastered his flesh like only the twice embodied did, he was still bound to it. This was a grave risk, to himself as well as to the errands he was running. And yet, if pursuing a set course one hears a cry of distress, it should be heeded; betimes, following one's path means straying from it. 

The next instant, they were upon him. Several pairs of hands grabbed him, and making derisive remarks that betrayed their disdain for one so easily overcome they tied his hands on his back with a rough rope. Glorfindel sought the eyes of the oldest of the men and held them with a piercing gaze. Stepping back, the man cried out in fear or shock; the Elf could not say which. 

They had to be careful with one of this race, one of the beardless youths said, speaking for the first time. Elves were dangerous and could not be trusted, as the master used to warn them. 

Glorfindel turned his head in surprise. His dismay at the remark did not prevent him from noticing that the speaker was female. 

The others nodded, and soon, he had a rope around his neck as well, held by the largest and strongest of his captors. Another gave him a hard shove between his shoulder-blades. Stumbling, he found himself jerked up by the rope. Gagging, he struggled to regain his balance and barely succeeded to do so before they were on their way. He wished with all his heart that Gildor would do as he was told and take the shortest road to Mithlond, instead of deciding to court real danger. But even as he did so, the air was rent by a crack of thunder, soon followed by a heavy rain that did not bode well: on muddy paths their trail would be too temptingly easy to follow.

 

(TBC)


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

_This chapter is for Jenniffer, because of her interest in Tárion._

**Tárion**

Shortly after breakfast, one of the healers came to change Tárion's bandages. When she told him his wound was healing well, even better than expected, he   
used the opportunity to ask her if she would kindly bring him the sketchbook sitting on the desk in the King's library and a piece of charcoal. When the healer pointed out to him that he had better not use that arm yet, he reminded her the wound was in his left shoulder.

Moreover, doing something he loved to do would speed his recovery. Eventually she complied and even helped him to sit up.   
He did not start drawing until she had closed the door behind her. Why let her discover that he was left-handed? He would hardly have to move his shoulder in order to draw; he could work from the elbow and even from the wrist. After a brief hesitation he gave his hand free rein to see what, or rather whose image it would come up with.

It turned out to be Celebrimbor, son of Curufin.

_So that is what occupies your mind_ , Tárion said to himself, not in the least surprised. He had known Celebrimbor well, after his days as Gil-galad's spy in Ost-in-Edhil. Celebrimbor had revealed a few things regarding the workings of the Elven Rings (though Tárion knew better than to think it was all). Part of that knowledge derived from Annatar, still unmasked at the time, and Tárion wondered if it would not be possible to use the Ring and yet avoid being touched or searched by the Dark Lord's mind. Sauron was not easily fooled, of course, but perhaps it could be done. After all, King Finrod Felagund had succeeded in hiding Beren's mortality from him even after their imprisonment in the dungeons of Minas Tirith.*

And the truth was, that Tárion yearned to use Nárya's powers of healing and renewal on himself. Not to cure his more recent wound, but to heal, or at least diminish the burn marks marring his body since the Fall of Gondolin. He still failed to understand how Gil-galad could bear to look at him when they undressed to make love, and he had never rid himself of the habit of trying to cover them with his arm and hand. His beloved could kiss the scars all he liked, and patiently repeat to Tárion that they did _not_ make him ugly, it did not help, not in the long run.

He remembered vividly how the King had contrived to find out why the Captain of his Guard always went alone to the bath-house. It had been in the early years of this Second Age of the Sun. Gil-galad had commanded Tárion to accompany him on a ride to a small lake in the Emyn Beraid. It was a hot afternoon, and the King suggested they should take a swim. It took another command for Tárion to strip and join Gil-galad in the water - the last thing he wanted was to show those hideous scars to the one he had loved almost since he first set eyes on him, before the end of the First Age. That his love would remain unrequited was a thing he could live with, but how was he ever to bear the disgust and rejection he would see in the King's face? Yet he could but obey.

Gil-galad was indeed shocked, but it was a shock caused by dismay, not disgust, and his eyes held compassion, instead of rejection. Back on the lakeshore, where they sat down to dry, he asked if he could touch the scars. Surprised, Tárion warned him that he might be caught up in the unabated memory of pain such a touch would stir - but Gil-galad did it all the same, and he had not even pulled his hand away when his body began to shudder with the agony of past, yet ever-present sufferings.

It was then Tárion realised his love was not unrequited after all.

'My lord king,' he remembered saying, 'I would like to make a request.'

'Go ahead,' was the answer.

'Do I have your permission to kiss you?' His own boldness amazed him to no end.

The sudden radiance on Gil-galad's face took his breath away. 'How I was hoping you would say that!' he almost cried out. 'I could never have done it, being who I am. I would never have known if you merely obeyed me.' He laughed happily. 'Permission granted... provided that henceforth you will not mylordking me. Call me Arto, as those dear to me once did.' _Before I lost them all when Nargothrond fell_ , was his unspoken thought - but Tárion could hear it clearly in his own mind.

'Arto,' he said softly, and they kissed until the breeze rising at dusk told them they had tarried much too long.

It was almost perfect. Except that the ugly scars and the agonising memories were still there, almost seventeen hundred later. And except for his conviction that Nárya was able to heal both, if he could but find a way to handle it while keeping Sauron's evil mind at bay. The knowledge that his lover had put the Ring of Fire back into the shrine beside the bed was no incentive to resist temptation.

Grimly, he tore the page with Celebrimbor's face from the sketchbook and threw it to the floor. He had better draw someone else. Not his lover, whom he had depicted countless times, in every conceivable and several inconceivable positions. But who could tell what his inventive hand would think of next?

The hand began to sketch, to the sound of distant thunder somewhere in the Ered Luin. When the picture was finished Tárion saw it was Glorfindel.

He put down the sketchbook, and not only because his shoulder wound bothered him. Why the Lord of the Golden Flower, his captain and friend, slain by the Balrog all those years ago? Why did his past keep intruding on him?

_I will have a look at that Ring_ , he found himself thinking.

At that moment, someone knocked on the door of the King's bedroom. 'Enter!' he said.

It was the Shipwright himself, lord Círdan with his silvery hair and beard and his almost un-elvish tan. Seeing that Tárion was alone in the room, he frowned. 'Apologies for disturbing your rest, Captain,' he said formally, be it not unkindly, 'but I was told I could find the High King here.'

'The King left last night on an important errand, my lord.' Tárion was not ready yet to disclose the reason behind Gil-galad's absence. 'Can I can help you?'

'I'm afraid not,' the Shipwright said. 'With that black head of hair you do not resemble the King closely enough to pass for him, which would definitely be useful if he does not return soon.'

'What happened?' Tárion asked, more than a little alarmed.

'This very moment, the admiral's ship of the Númenorean fleet sails into the Southern Harbour. Undoubtedly Tar Minastir's Ciryatur expects to be received by the High King of the Noldor in his royal palace.' Círdan sighed. 'Let us hope this Númenorean is a true Elf-friend, and not easily insulted. Or else we may lose Tar Minastir's support against the Dark Lord.'

The sound of rain lashing the windows seemed to confirm his worries.

***

**Celebrían**

When the thunderclap came she was not surprised, for she had sensed it coming. Nor did it scare her, for her tree stood in a valley, not on a plain, where it would risk being struck by lightning. And the foliage would shelter her against the worst of the downpour.   
The leader of the swarthy men fingered his golden ring. 'I ask again,' he said in his heavily accented Sindarin. 'What do on horse, girl? Ride errand for Elf-king?'

Celebrían wished he was looking at her face instead of at her exposed breasts, but she realised only too well that he had torn her tunic and shirt just for that purpose, and that it was the least of her problems. Ever since they had captured her last night, she wondered why he had neither raped her nor allowed his men to do so. The most logical explanation she could think of was that he had a master who wanted her whole - a master whose identity she hardly dared guess, and who certainly did not love the Eldar.

'If that were the case,' she said haughtily to Orgol - or so she thought his name was - 'do you think I would admit it?'

'Still no, eh?' Orgol spat.

'I am merely a lady of the High King's Court,' she said, raising her voice above the noise of the rain; the drops were so heavy that some did penetrate the leaves now. 'By now, they will have discovered my disappearance, and they will certainly search for me. I would take care if I were you.'

'Why ride in dark?'

That was the weak point. Spies liked the cover of darkness. 'Why not?' she countered. 'They will come.'

'No find us here.' He turned and strode away, but he would be back. Celebrían dreaded that moment as much as she feared that he was right: she would be hard to find. The tree to which they had tied her grew in a sheltered, narrow valley that only betrayed its presence to those who suddenly found themselves inside. Only someone who knew where to seek it would find it other than by accident. She did not doubt that her mother and the King would send a search party, but she could only pray that at least someone in it was aware of this valley's existence.

And that Orgol and his people - she had counted nine males and two females, but five, including one of the women, had left early this morning - would not take her to this master of theirs before the search party would find her. She tried to convince herself that they would not leave before the others returned. She told herself how fortunate it was that at least one of them spoke Sindarin, however badly.

Surely an enemy you understood could not be as bad as an enemy with whom no conversation was possible? She supposed she was lucky these people were not _yrch_ , though she was not quite sure why. What more would an orc-chieftain instructed to spare any captives have done than this Orgol had? Or what less? Would orcs have fed her and given her water to drink, like these people had, even if the bread was mouldy, and the water tasted of mud?

A shower of chilly drops landed on her head, almost making her jump. She shook her head in annoyance. What could she do to help herself? There was a story about a captive who had been found with the help of a song**, but there it was the seeker who had done the singing, and if she tried it anyway they would probably gag her. Not a good idea. What else could she do to prevent herself from panicking? It was hard to think, distracted as she was by her own worries and fears.

Hours later, she still did not know a satisfactory answer.

One of Orgol's men came sauntering towards her, licking his lips. When he began to squeeze her breasts, Celebrían turned her head away; he smelled of wet clothes, and his breath stank. An angry string of words put an end to his disgusting ministrations: Orgol. Though it had stopped raining some time ago, his boots squished as he approached. He grabbed her chin and wrenched her face towards his. 'Speak,' he said. 'Or I give you to men.'

'And would your master condone that?' she asked defiantly, managing not to let her voice tremble. 'Would he not rather have me untouched?'

It angered him that she had guessed he was not acting on his own. 'No master, I,' he growled, fidgeting with his ring.

_Yes, you have_ , she wanted to say, but suddenly, realising how truly she had spoken, she also recognised the deeper and more dreadful danger she was in. Somehow, the man was bound to this master of his, and by turning this into a battle of wills, she ran the risk of betraying herself, and perhaps others, to someone stronger than she was. It would be best to guard her mind from all outside probings, she decided.

She cast down her eyes. 'But what is my life worth, when I tell you what you want?'

'You woman to _me_ ,' he replied. 'Not other men. Tell me secrets of Elves.' He grinned wolfishly. 'Secrets of Elven magic. Of life undying.'

Now Orgol, too, reached for her breasts, but instead of grabbing her roughly he began to tease her nipples with the soft flesh of his thumbs. 'Like it?'

_Of course not!_ Was he deluding himself, or would a mortal woman be susceptible to this kind of thing even when tied to a tree? Celebrían had to admit to herself that she knew precious little about mortal women. But whatever was the case, she hoped that he would take her shiver for a sign of pleasure, for she realised now, as she ought to have done much earlier, that her only chance of rescuing herself lay in tricking him. _Secrets of life undying._ So that was what was on his mind? 'Untie me,' she said, 'and I shall show you secrets of the Elves.'  
Again, he reached out, but she would never know what he was going to do, for in that instant, the other five members of Orgol's company returned, soakingly wet - and they were bringing a new captive.

Another Elf.

*at least, according to the version in the Lays of Beleriand (HoMe 3). The reference is to the Minas Tirith of The Silmarillion, not that of LotR.  
**Maedhros son of Fëanor, found by Fingon son of Fingolfin, while hanging by his wrist on a precipice of Thangorodrim (Silmarillion). 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Beregar**

The plan was to follow the trail until nightfall. It seemed likely that the people who were taking Glorfindel away would halt to take a rest by the time it grew dark. If they did, the two of them would creep closer to assess the situation. Should it turn out that Glorfindel was indeed a prisoner they would try to free him while his captors slept, assuming they could overpower the watch without making too much noise. It was especially this last detail that could prove difficult. At least for one of them.

_For me_ , Beregar thought sullenly. _I should have known better than to follow a trail together with an Elf._ How many times had Gildor put his finger to his mouth - six times? Seven? Had no one ever told him how noisy mere mortals were? When the thunder rolled away to the east, the heavy rain had become a drizzle, no longer loud enough to drown the swishing of the branches Beregar pushed aside, or the sopping of his shoes on the muddy track. How did Gildor avoid making such sounds? How on earth did Elves move so quickly and elegantly?

By being Elves, he supposed. But that last, reproachful gesture was one to many. He halted, and folding his arms across his rain-soaked chest he waited for the other to notice the sudden silence. Two heartbeats later, Gildor looked back again, wiping his wet hair from his forehead. Seeing Beregar's defiant stare, he retraced his steps.

'What ails you?' he asked softly.

'Incurable mortality,' the young man replied. 'Stop expecting me to move like the likes of you, or I shall heed Glorfindel's counsel and go to Mithlond.' He raised his voice, ignoring the Elf's frantic gestures. 'Listen. We agreed that the people who took Glorfindel away had to be Men. If they are too far ahead to be heard by me, surely I am too far behind to be heard by them. So why go to all this trouble to remain silent?'

His companion immediately tried to disabuse him of the notion that he had a point. 'Beregar,' he began to explain patiently: 'I am thinking of Glorfindel, not of his abductors. If I can hear them - and last time I listened I could - he can hear you, too. It may worry him that we have ignored his wish. Or he... may inadvertently betray us.' That didn't come out very convincingly, and suddenly Gildor shrugged. 'Well, if he has not noticed our presence by now, he never will. Let us resume our pursuit. And move as you like, if you must.'

Once he was looking at Gildor's back again, Beregar allowed himself a smile. He had achieved his aim: being able to walk more or less normally. Glorfindel's possible worries did not concern him. The lord he served was the Ciryatur of Númenor, and through him Tar Minastir the King.

Though it was obvious that Gildor used his ears as much as his eyes, Beregar kept his gaze on the footprints in the mud. There were five sets, one smaller than the rest. A boy? Or did Elves have daintier feet than Men and did those prints belong to Glorfindel? But Gildor's feet were hardly smaller than his own. He frowned. Why would spies take a boy along? Perhaps these people were not enemies. Perhaps Glorfindel accompanied them of his own free will. 'Gildor,' he began, just an instant before he bumped into the Elf, who had halted without warning. 'Ai!'

'Ai indeed,' Gildor muttered. Beregar had stepped on his heel.

'My pardon, Gildor,' he said, 'but I am as clumsy as the next mortal. Why do you stop?'

'To listen. You should be able to hear it as well.' Gildor actually sounded encouraging now, like a teacher who tries to get the best out of a somewhat benighted pupil.

Like the good boy he was, Beregar did his best. 'Was that a horse?' he said after a long pause.

'More than one, I think. Coming from the South - and they seem to be heading into our direction.'

'A company of riders, sent by the King of the Noldor to hunt trespassers,' Beregar suggested. 'Let us hope they will not just shoot anything that moves.'

'Elves do not shoot E -' Gildor began, and stopped abruptly.

Beregar, familiar with the history of the First Age and its Kinslayings, bit his lip. He saw that his companion looked troubled - ashamed and sorrowful at the same time. _But just as he thought serves him right_ , Gildor sighed deeply.

'Forgive me, Beregar,' he said. 'I was presuming. As you said, let us hope they will not shoot anything that moves; though hiding may be a better option if these riders come too close. We do not even know if they are Elves. The group we are following is out of earshot anyway, so from now on we will have to rely on reading the tracks. I guess you are as good at that as I am.'

He was unexpectedly generous, but Beregar, a sailor and not a woodsman, doubted it was true. 'There is nothing to forgive,' he replied. 'I was provoking.'

Gildor grinned, an engaging grin. 'Shall we go on, then, each trying to grow wiser by studying the ways of the other kind?'

'If you think I am up to it,' Beregar could not refrain from saying.

'I can always pretend I do,' Gildor shot back.

Now it was Beregar's turn to grin. But not for long, for the riders were indeed coming towards them.

***

**Galadriel**

Galadriel was on edge. She could feel something in the air, despite the rain, or perhaps thanks to it. Gil-galad had felt it as well, if she was not mistaken; it would not surprise her if he had brought along one of his rings on this search, just as she had brought Nenya. Celebrimbor's rings heightened their awareness of nature, a nature sadly pervaded with death and decay yet living nonetheless, in a way few could discern. Rocks remembered, trees and plants could sense, streams could convey messages. Somewhere in these mountains, something was not entirely to their liking. And this search party was drawing closer to it.

The King was no longer with them. Galadriel had not counseled him to leave. But a few hours after dawn, wondering aloud whether any fate in Arda could or would be changed by his personal decisions, Gil-galad had at last turned his horse to gallop back to the South Haven and the Númenorean ships about to anchor there. His anxiety for Celebrían was undiminished, but a King should place the well-being of his people - let alone great parts of Middle-earth -before that of a single person and let his conscience eat him in private. Galadriel would not hold her daughter's fate against him, whatever it might be.

However, she was by no means sure he would be back in time to offer Tar Minastir's admiral the welcome appropriate to his rank and mission.

He had left them shortly before the weather changed - for the worse, many would say, but not Galadriel. She liked thunderstorms, perhaps because in Valinor they were rare, never menacing, never damaging. Celeborn - and suddenly her heart ached, for Celeborn was with Elrond in Imladris, surrounded by Sauron's armies - failed to see what was so enticing about them since his favourite tree in Doriath was destroyed by the lightning Melian's Girdle had been unable to ward off.

With a sigh Galadriel relegated her memories of an age long past and lands long perished to a more suitable time. She had barely done so when one of the scouts abruptly reined in his horse, uttering a cry and staring at the routed, rain-softened path they were following. She eyed him questioningly

'My lady...' He faltered.

Galadriel urged her mound forward, and went still. The scout jumped from his horse and picked up Celebrían's mithril hair clip, two or three long, silver hairs still attached to it. His companion dismounted and knelt to examine the impressions of feet and horseshoes scattered all about.

Galadriel never shrank back from the inevitable. 'My daughter was taken captive,' she stated.

'I am afraid so,' the kneeling scout murmured, handing her the clip.

Closing her hand around it, Galadriel cast about with her mind, searching for any trace of Celebrían. She found none.

'We will follow this trail,' she declared, urging on her mare, sick with fear and stony-faced.

They continued through the diminishing rain, wet and wary. Several miles further on, another, fresher trail coming from the Southwest merged with the first one. No hoof prints there, Galadriel saw, just feet. Apparently the scouts saw more, for again they halted. Walking back along this new trail for a number of yards they studied the tracks at length. Galadriel dismounted, too, and joined them, careful not to disturb anything.

Finally, the scouts rose. 'This is strange,' the first one said. 'Most of these prints belong to mortals, we deem. But one set is very superficial, and barely visible.'

'Which would be easy to explain when the owner of the feet is Elvish,' the other scout went on. 'Though who this could be, we cannot tell.'

'Perhaps we can,' a clear voice said from behind a large, leafy bush. The next moment, some branches were swept aside and two people stepped into view. Both were equally soaked, but one looked to be a mortal, while the other's appearance confirmed what the voice had implied: that he was an Elf.

His fair hair, which would probably shine like spun gold in the sun, was plastered to his head. Two thin braids dangled along his cheeks, gleaming wetly, and his appearance was as bedraggled as the young Man's. Nevertheless he smiled engagingly.

But Galadriel froze. She knew that face. A fist closed around her heart and squeezed, until her eyes burned with tears.   
Nothing, not even Nenya, had prepared her for this.

(TBC)


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Chapter 15

**The Ciryatur**  
  
The Númenorean admiral had no intention of leaving his ship until the current cloudburst was over. It would be too detrimental to his dignity if he were to appear before the High King of the Noldor looking like a drowned kitten. The report of his dripping aide confirmed his suspicions that the High King, too, shunned the weather, though there seemed to be a local dignitary waiting on the quayside. Not Gil-galad, but he did not look like an average member of the Elven public. And though his silver hair clearly identified him as an Elf, he had a beard. Were Elves not supposed to be beardless?  
'Not this one, obviously. Ask him if he happens to be waiting for me,' the Ciryatur said, 'and whether he is the one they call the Shipwright, if he does not volunteer the information.'  
He did, though. 'The Shipwright he is,' the returning aide told his admiral, 'and also the master of these harbours.'  
The renowned Círdan himself. An Elf of consequence, then. 'But is he waiting for me?'  
The aide shook his head. 'Only looking, he claimed. Professional interest. He has been building ships since before the Sun and the Moon, if we are to believe him.'  
The Ciryatur frowned. Númenorean officers, even minor ones, were supposed to be educated; they ought to know who the Shipwright was. How had this one managed to become an admiral's aide - by bribery?  
'By the way, my lord, the rain seems to be decreasing,' the young man went on.  
'Good,' the Ciryatur said. 'Go and ask the lord Círdan when I can expect the arrival of his King.'  
As it turned out, the Shipwright could not tell, but he promised to make inquiries. 'Not that I saw him send anyone,' the aide added. 'Nor did he show any intention of going himself.  
How peculiar, the admiral thought. Why would he tarry? He began to feel he was not being treated with the proper respect.  
  
***  
  
 **Gil-galad**  
  
Galloping dangerously down the slippery hillside, the King blessed the rain. By now, he was close enough to the Havens to have a good view of the admiral's ship, and he saw no activities on deck to indicate an imminent disembarkation. On the quayside stood Círdan, watching the newly arrived fleet and engaging in conversation with a sailor. Though the Eldar did possess rainproof screens for the protection of delicately dressed ladies and scribes carrying precious scrolls, the Shipwright seemed to have forgotten their existence. Conveniently so.  
The sailor walked away, probably to convey a message. By now, the rain had become a drizzle, but with a little luck Gil-galad would be back in time to receive the admiral in person, though clad in mud-covered riding leathers, instead of the robes of state appropriate for the occasion. He realised he might have to apologise. But given the dire straits in which they were, even that would be acceptable.  


He thought of his letter to Tar Meneldur, father of Tar Aldarion, the first plea for help against the growing shadow in the East he had ever sent to the Númenoreans. 'If you have any strength of Men to spare, lend it to me, I beg.'*  
That was the second letter; with a rare show of disapproval Tárion had thrown the first draft into the fire because he thought the wording too haughty. At first Gil-galad had been annoyed, even though there were no witnesses present. 'You wish to be High King of the Noldor?' he recalled asking angrily. 'You think you can do better than I have done so far? Am I to play the beggar?'  
At that Tárion, looking pained, had unexpectedly dropped to his knees and spread his arms. 'But is it so difficult to humble oneself a little, Arto? And tell me, how am I to know if I would be a better or worse ruler than you are? My head was never meant to wear the crown; fate decided otherwise, and you of all people should know that I do not covet what I cannot have. Or do you think I envy you the burden?'  
Gil-galad, contrite even before Tárion finished speaking, had pulled him up and embraced him. 'Forgive me, Valanya. I know you do not. All the same, I will have to put it on your shoulders for the time it takes to draft a new letter.' With a wide smile he had placed his golden circlet on Tárion's dark hair, a gesture he had often repeated since in earnest and jest, though only when no one else was present. And seating himself to put his quill to a fresh piece of parchment he had added, pulling a face: 'You've wasted my effort. That letter took me hours to write. The least you can do now is to tell me what to write instead.'  
Putting the circlet back where it was supposed to belong, his lover had started to dictate a replacement for the burned draft. Their recent letter to Tar Minastir, many years after this useful incident, had been a model of humble courtesy from the beginning.  
Suddenly, Gil-galad smiled to himself. Though his present appearance made him a humble king indeed, it occurred to him that an apology would perhaps not be necessary even if he was late.  
At that moment, Nimroch skidded, and he was almost launched over the animal's neck. With an effort, he managed to regain the saddle and keep the horse from sliding down the rest of the hill. He just considered slowing his pace a little when he saw someone leave Círdan's side to make for the palace. Was the Ciryatur growing impatient?  
  
***  
  
 **The Ciryatur**  
  
The Elven King kept him waiting much to long. When the aide told him about the horseman galloping towards the harbour at full speed, the Ciryatur, bored as he was, decided to allow himself this little diversion and make an appearance on deck and have a look. The worst of the rain was over, and his formal robes of dark blue silk could tolerate a little moisture without showing it.  
Walking up to the rail he saw that the rider - bearing an urgent message? - was close by now, yet kept up his breakneck speed. He raced towards the very edge of the water, but just as the admiral thought that both horse and horseman would end up between quay and ship the animal halted abruptly without so much as a flick of the reins, less than a foot from Círdan's left shoulder. The Shipwright did not bat an eye, but the Ciryatur thought he saw one corner of his mouth twitch.  
The rider leapt from his horse, his gaze seeking Círdan's across the animal's back. Though no words were spoken, a kind of exchange appeared to take place, during which the Númenorean had the time to observe the newcomer. It was a fair-haired Elf, boyishly slender, dressed simply in a light grey tunic and a cloak of the same hue. His boots and dark grey leggings were spattered with mud, as was the not-so-white horse waiting motionlessly at his side, like an attending guard. Somehow, the horse made a less casual impression than the rider did.  
The latter looked up, raising a hand in salute. 'Hail, my lord Ciryatur of Númenor,' he said, and fell silent again, eyeing the admiral expectantly.  
The Ciryatur cleared his throat. 'Have you come to bear me a message from your king?'  
'I have come to bid you welcome to the lands of Middle-earth and the Kingdom of the Noldor, and to invite you to disembark, and ride with me to my palace.'  
My palace? Inwardly, the Númenorean cursed himself. So this bedraggled stripling was the High King of the Noldor? Why did these damned Elves always look so damned young? As a high official and a distant kinsman to the King of Elenna the Starward, the Ciryatur was entitled to a much more dignified reception - but now he had spoiled any advantage this lack of respect could have given him by addressing the mighty Gil-galad as an errand boy. And no doubt this was precisely what the High King had intended, to judge by his complacent smile.  
He drew himself up to his full Númenorean height, which was considerable. 'Thank you, my lord King, for your gracious invitation, which I gladly accept. If it would suit you to wait a while until my horse is brought ashore?'  
'No need to wait,' Gil-galad said cheerfully, and indeed behind him a groom approached from the direction of the palace, leading a magnificent black stallion towards the admiral's ship. 'While you are here, this horse from my own stables is at your disposal, my lord.'  
The Shipwright looked smug, so this was probably his doing.  
Nodding in acknowledgement, the Ciryatur made ready to disembark; despite himself, he was eager to mount the black. But stepping onto the quay, he made another discovery he did not like. That the Noldorin King looked slender as a boy was mainly due to his height, it appeared. In fact, he was not slightly built at all, and he looked to be as strong as any Man of true Dúnadan blood. But the worst was, that he stood taller than the Ciryatur himself.  
It occurred to him how easy it would be to dislike this Elven King.  
  
***  
  
 **Glorfindel**  
  
She was tied to a tree and her breasts were bared, but as they pulled him closer by the rope around his neck he read in her eyes that she was a maiden. Not raped, then. Compared to the horrid images his mind had conjured up while they led him into this secluded valley by mid-afternoon, this did not seem too bad. Yet Glorfindel was angry. For the first time since his fëa was rehoused, he was truly angry. An unpleasant experience, for it reminded him of the destruction of Gondolin, of his furious struggle with the Balrog, and of his own death in the flames fanned by the wind of their fall. But he was strong enough to turn his mind away from it, thanks to his stay in the Halls of Mandos.  
Close to the silver haired Elf maiden stood a man. It was a sallow-skinned fellow of average build and height, not yet past his prime, as far as Glorfindel could judge mortals. It was to him the Elf was brought now. The mortals had ceased to yank him forward once he had learned to anticipate their abrupt jerks and pulls, moving just a little earlier and thereby unbalancing them, instead of losing his own balance.  
Ignoring the leader, Glorfindel observed the maiden's face, searching her eyes, gently brushing his mind against hers. He could sense her dismay at seeing another Elf in captivity, and pity - did he really look pitiful? - but that was all she offered him. He did not know what to think of the way she closed herself against his tentative, gentle probing.  
'Look here!' the leader of the mortals barked.  
Slowly, Glorfindel adjusted his gaze, allowing him to capture it. He knew at once that something was wrong with this Man - very wrong. In the shallows beneath the surface of his awareness another presence lurked, shadowy, dark...  


...Evil! Reeling, the Elf from Aman pulled out, though the instant he recognised it, he also knew he would be able to hold his own against it. For black as it was, the power of the shadow was weakened by the mortal flesh and blood of the Man who hosted it. Glorfindel did not knew how it was possible for the shadow to be where it was, though he began to guess who it could be. What he did know, was that he was not prepared to confront it even in this mitigated form. Not yet.  
And so, he cast down his eyes as if he feared the Man before him.  
He heard the mortal snort. 'Elf fear Orgol, eh?' A chuckle. 'Elf man know Elf woman?'  
Glorfindel looked up again. 'No,' he replied truthfully. 'This is the first time I ever set eyes on her.'  
The Man hit him hard enough to split his lip. 'Is lie!'  
Glorfindel caught a brief flash from the inside of his hand - the gemstone of a golden ring. Immediately, he knew it for the source of Orgol's evil, though this time he was on his guard against it and it hardly affected him.  
'She said...' the Man went on, seeming to look for words. 'Search-party.'  
'No,' the Elf maid said. 'He speaks the truth. I have never seen him at the High King's Court, and I know everyone there.' Her voice was lower than expected and almost devoid of emotion, Glorfindel noticed. Could it be that she, too, was under the influence of the evil he had sensed in Orgol? Licking the blood from his lip he thought of Morgoth's thralls, back in the First Age: Elves who had succumbed to the will of the Enemy and who had been released from Angband to sow his evil among their own kindred. What if Sauron the Deceiver copied his dethroned master in this? On the other hand: would she be bound if she was on the Dark side?  


Orgol seemed to accept her explanation. He gave his men an order in his own tongue, and they dragged their latest captive to the tree and tied him to the other side. Glorfindel yearned to show his true strength, but judged it too early. He felt that he had to know for certain where the silver haired maiden stood before he acted on her behalf.  
'Will be back,' he heard Orgol say to her, 'for secrets of Elves. And for sport, eh?'  
What had she told him? Offered him? Glorfindel wished she would drop her defences. I can free you, if you want, my lady, he spoke to her in his mind. Answer me, please.  
She remained unresponsive, but that could denote lack of belief as well as lack of interest. He sighed. Perhaps he should take the risk anyway?  
  
  
  
*UT, p. 200, Aldarion and Erendis


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

  
Gildor  
  
Gildor's smile faded. For some reason the lady - and he could easily tell she was one, despite her simple attire - seemed overcome by grief, her eyes shining with tears. But surely his and Beregar's appearance did not warrant such a reaction? He studied her face, which was beautiful even according to the measure of the Eldar, and framed by hair of a most remarkable colour: not quite gold and not quite silver but a little of both, mingled, yet somehow distinct.  
  
Suddenly he knew what memories the face called up and why it looked familiar. Even as he opened his mouth to speak, though, she shook her head rather vehemently, as if to rid herself of a temptation she knew to be false.  
  
Or false hopes, as it turned out, for she whispered sadly: 'No, it could not be. You are not he. He was killed in Sauron's dungeons, long ago, and he does not return.'  
  
'Would you be speaking of Findaráto, son of Arafinwe*, good lady?' Gildor asked her in Quenya, taking a step closer and bowing courteously. 'It is said that I resemble him closely, though none who see us together would take one for the other.'  
  
She blinked, and regaining her voice she said in the same language, sounding like an eager child more than anything else: 'So he has left the Houses of the Dead?'  
  
Smiling once more, Gildor replied: 'Indeed he has, many years of the Sun ago. I am his grandson. Gildor Inglorion is my name.'

She must have expected this, or else she was in complete control of herself again, for if she was surprised she hid it well.  
  
Someone else did not, though: behind him, Gildor could hear Beregar's sharp intake of breath at this revelation. It seemed to him the young man was overdoing it a little, even taking his grandfather Finrod's favourable reputation among mortals into account. Also, it amazed him that Beregar understood Quenya: he had been told it was the language of the court at Armenelos, not that of Númenor's more common places, where his companion hailed from.

'Then let me bid you welcome to these mortal shores, Gildor Inglorion, grandson of the brother closest to my heart,' the lady said gravely, 'even though I do not rule here. But I think I can claim to speak in the name of the High King Gil-galad as well.' She paused, and now a smile appeared on her face, though it held more sadness than joy. 'Would your grandmother be Amarië of the Vanyar? Did she wait for my brother?'

'Yes, to both questions.' Gildor's inclined his head. 'I will be greatly honoured to tell my grandsire's sister Artanis all that befell her brother after his return from Mandos, if and when she wishes me to do so...

'... but not here and now,' she finished his sentence for him, confirming his guess with a gracious nod of her head. 'For ours is no pleasure ride. Nor do I believe your errand is of a leisurely kind, if it warns you to hide at the approach of strangers.' She caught Gildor's gaze, subjecting him to the most thorough scrutiny he had ever undergone from someone not of the Ainur.

As he had nothing to hide from her, his eyes met hers unblinkingly. After a while, she released him and they both knew that he could have broken free, had he wished so - be it not without effort, or without creating antagonism. When he introduced Beregar to her, the young mortal received the same treatment. He held his own for a considerable time, but in the end he looked down.

'Lady Artanis,' Gildor began.

She shook her head, and changing to Sindarin she said: 'Here in Middle-earth, I am called Galadriel. And perhaps you would be so kind not to speak the Ancient Tongue, for not all of my companions have that language.

'As you wish, my lady.'

An exchange of facts and findings followed, and both parties reached the conclusion that they were chasing the same group of people, and for the same reason: to obtain the freedom of someone who had in all likelihood been taken captive. Joining efforts was the best course they could take, most of them agreed. Beregar did not partake in the discussion, leaving it to the others to take the decisions. Gildor still was not sure why the Númenorean came along at all, assuming the young man knew what he was doing. But he liked him well enough to wish that he could trust him more than he actually did.

They mounted on one of the scouts' horses, Beregar behind Gildor. Riding barebacked did not seem to bother him, though mortals were supposed to prefer saddles. The scout whose horse they took, went ahead on foot to check the footprints and watch out for other traces left behind by the captors and their captives. The riders followed at a walking pace. Galadriel spoke little; she could have asked for tidings of the Blessed Realm now, but apparently her concern for her daughter prevailed over her curiosity.

After a while, Beregar pressed more closely against Gildor's back, and the Elf felt his breath tickle the sensitive skin of his ear. 'So, Gildor Inglorion, here in Middle-earth you are Finwe's eldest surviving descendant in the male line**,' he murmured. 'How interesting...'

A shiver ran along Gildor's spine, most likely caused by Beregar's hot breath. He could not in all honesty claim that this had never occurred to him. Yet all he said was: 'Gil-galad has been High King for more rounds of the sun than I have seen in my life.' He was not quite certain, but he thought he could feel Beregar chuckle.

It was shortly after this exchange that they came upon a swift stream descending from the higher regions of the Blue Mountains. The footprints led straight into the water, but when the scout on horseback crossed to the other side, he had disturbing news.  
The trail did not continue on the opposite bank.  
  
***  
  
Celebrian  
  
He offered her freedom.

Celebrian was in doubt. Who could her fellow captive be? To judge by his appearance he was an Elda who had beheld the shining Trees of Valinor, and she was tempted to trust him. Yet there was something peculiar about this golden haired stranger. Raised as she was by one of the mighty among the High Elves she could tell that his seeming lack of resistance only served to hide a power strong enough to make Orgol shake with fear - if he wanted. Why did he feign to be helpless? He seemed to be on her side, but was he sincere?

Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, had deceived the Elven-smiths of Eregion, pretending to be their friend. The face he showed them was noble, his counsels seemed wise and he claimed to love Middle-earth like they did. But it was all fake: a mask of fairness to cover the foulest designs, sweet words to hide bitter grudges against the Powers, aid merely given in an attempt to enslave them and in darkness bind them. Though some had distrusted him, none, not even her own mother, had seen him through until it was too late. Now Annatar of the Gifts was Sauron once more, wielding his One Ring in an attempt to conquer and rule them all.

This offer to help her could be a trap. The Dark Lord hated her mother and would use all possible means to harm her. By now, Sauron probably knew that Galadriel's daughter was a captive in the hands of one of his servants. Maybe he had sent another servant to ensnare her, clad in a semblance of light and beauty. But lacking the capacity to dispel such illusions, Celebrian could not possibly do more than decide what to believe. She could take the risk to open the gates of her mind, or she could keep them locked, thereby barring her road toward freedom. The choice was hers.

But not yet, as it turned out. So deeply had she been absorbed in thought that she had failed to notice the approach of Orgol, followed by three of his men. This time, however, she was not the target. After barking a command in his own tongue Orgol switched to Sindarin to address his other captive. 'Name!'

'Glorfindel,' came the calm reply.

Celebrian frowned. That name belonged to a great warrior of old who gave his life to protect the fugitives of Gondolin from a Balrog, long yeni*** ago in the First Age. Few deeds matched the sacrifice made by Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, and the Eldar considered it presumptuous to bestow the honour of his name upon their children. If this... person claimed it for himself, would it not mean that he had stolen it to hide his true identity? Or was he an exception to the rule?

'You sent by Elf King?' she heard Orgol ask - a familiar question.

The answer was familiar, too: 'I am not.'

She could hear several sharp, slapping sounds. If this was a performance staged for her benefit, it was disturbingly realistic. 'Is lie,' Orgol growled.  
  
'I do not lie.'  
  
Another blow, more violent this time. 'Will take you to Master of Middle-earth. But first...' Orgol paused. Another command in his own tongue, followed by what she guessed to be the translation. 'Told men to cut away clothes. Prick you with knife in soft places. Take pleasure of you. Maybe speak true, then.' He laughed maliciously.

The malice was genuine, Celebrian realised suddenly, regardless of whether his master would let him carry out those threats. Or perhaps Orgol could carry them out without leaving visible traces, knowing that Elves healed fast.

She made her choice. If you are able to free yourself, then do it! she cried out. Never mind me!  
  
On the other side of the tree, the sound of snapping ropes could be heard. A shout of surprised fury was followed by shrill wails of fear, and suddenly the leaves of the trees and bushes in front of her were greener and shinier, as if lit by a light from an unseen source. There was an answering red glare, but it was soon spent. Celebrian's ears caught a string of angry words that could only be curses, followed by the swift trample of feet, and cries in the distance.

A blade cut through her bonds, and she was free to move. Celebrian turned to look at her liberator, still wondering what he could be, but without fear now. No child of the dark could emanate such brightness, and if he called himself Glorfindel it had to be his true name, whatever the explanation was.

He gave her a brief smile before he took her by the hand. His other hand, holding the dagger he must have wrested from one of his enemies, gestured towards the entrance of the valley. 'Come, my lady, let me lead you to safety.' The light vanished.

They hurried away through a copse of alder trees. Looking back, Celebrian could see several drawn bows, the arrows pointing to the thirty feet or so of exposed ground they would have to cross before reaching cover again.

'When we leave the shelter of the trees, use me as a shield,' Glorfindel told her. 'Just in case, for if they shoot it is unlikely that their aim will be true.'

Celebrian nodded: she could guess his intentions. And indeed, when they started to cross the open space to the rocks beyond he unveiled himself again. This time, she saw more than a reflected glow on the foliage: his entire form shone with a radiance that matched Gil-galad's helm when it caught the rays of the sun, though it was softer and easier to look at. Though much further removed, Orgol and his people appeared to be badly affected by Glorfindel's sheen - was it their mortal eyesight, or were they truly creatures of the darkness who could not bear such light? Whatever it was, they had to shield their eyes, which prevented most of them from using their bows; the few arrows that were fired went wide because the archers were virtually blinded.

Glorfindel did not halt when they reached the cover of the rocks but urged her on for a while; of course, they could not be sure Orgol would simply take his losses and refrain from pursing them. In a small dell at the foot of a steep slope, they finally allowed themselves a moment of rest. It was then Celebrian realised her breasts were still exposed, and as if her companion had not had amply opportunity to see them she blushed furiously, gathering together the remnants of her bodice to cover herself.

'I wish they had not taken my cloak,' Glorfindel said with a slight frown. As the bodice was torn, it was plain that she would need one hand to keep herself decent, which could be impractical or even dangerous. Suddenly, he unclasped his belt, removed his tunic and held it out to her. When she hesitated to accept it he laughed softly. 'I do not mind going on bare-chested, my lady...?'

'Celebrian,' she replied. 'But will you not freeze?'

He shook his head. 'It is not cold, lady Celebrian.'

Though she did not quite agree, she felt she had no choice but to accept his offer and put the garment on. The fabric was softer and finer than anything she had ever worn, and briefly she wondered what it was made of.

'Now,' Glorfindel went on, 'you must tell me where to accompany you.'

'Mithlond,' she told him. 'It is a long walk, I fear. I wish we had my mare, so we could ride. She bolted when Orgol tried to mount her.'

'She may have made for her own stable - or we may run into her yet. But whether on foot or on horseback, I will take you home.'

He was about to move on, but she laid a hand on his arm. 'Thank you for rescuing me. I did not know you could break your bonds so easily.'

'I should have done so right away, instead of doubting you,' he said.

'No. I should have trusted you, my lord Glorfindel.'

He sighed. 'The Enemy has truly cast a long shadow over Middle-earth, when he can cause even the hearts of the Eldar to harbour such distrust of one another.' He was silent for a moment before adding: 'But we will prevail.'  
  


*Quenya for Finrod, son of Finarfin  
**As said in a note to an earlier chapter, in this story Gil-galad is not Ereinion son of Fingon, but Artanáro/Rodnor son of Orodreth, who in his turn is a son of Angrod, Finrod's younger brother. According to Chr. Tolkien, this was his father's last statement concerning Gil-galad's parentage. (History of Middle-earth, Vol. 12, The Peoples of Middle-earth.)  
***a yen is 144 years of the Sun


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Tárion**  
  
After Círdan had left, he laid the sketchbook aside and dozed off for a while. Waking up, he saw that the rain had ceased, though the sky was still overcast. His gaze went to the cabinet beside the bed. It was within reach. Two steps, at most.  
I am well enough to rise, Tárion told himself, and proceeded to do so. Though his legs felt shaky, he did manage to take the two steps towards the cabinet. If he knew anything about his lover, he would find one of Celebrimbor's rings there - and it was not too difficult to predict which one it would be.  
He had judged Gil-galad correctly, it turned out. The cabinet did contain Nárya - the ring best suited for his purpose. After a moment's hesitation, he took it in his hand, using the other to steady himself against the wall. 'You love me well, Arto,' he murmured. Gil-galad could easily have decided not to trust him and hide this ring.  
Yet he had left the decision to take it or leave it to the one he held most dear.  
Suddenly, Tárion felt dizzy, and he had to sit down on the edge of the bed. His eye fell on the sketch book, and he wondered what Glorfindel would have done, his admired lord and captain in the days of Gondolin the White.  
Of one thing, he was perfectly certain. Glorfindel never overestimated himself. Seeing he could not be sure he would overcome the Balrog by fighting on with his blade, he had done the one thing he knew would be decisive. When the fiery whip coiled around his waist he had thrown himself into the abyss, pulling the demon with him. And so, the good had perished with the bad - as happened far too often.  
On the edge of the bed, Tárion shuddered. The memory of the Balrog's heat made his own pain flare up. He gazed at the Ring's gemstone, a large ruby. Its glow seemed to hold the promise of healing both his scars and the memory of burning with cleansing fire. Its depths seemed to hold the spark of life itself.  
But that, he realised, was precisely where the temptation lay. Maybe Time's scars could be healed. Maybe its passage could be slowed and its changes toned down. But Time could not be reversed, nor the past be erased. The dead could receive new bodies, but no spark from any Ring made by Elvenhand could revive a corpse. Even the rehoused among the dead could never more be the living they once were, he realised with a certainty that went above and beyond experience. Though all the dead of Gondolin be restored to life in the Undying Lands, they would never become their old selves again, his fellow Gondolindrim, united in their love of their white city and their hatred of the Black Foe, Morgoth Bauglir. Revival was not creation, nor was healing the same as undoing. The hopeful youth he had been ere he was hurt and marred in body and soul was lost forever, and nothing could undo it.  
And even if it could be undone, was it worth the risk of exposing his mind to the Dark Lord?  
Tárion smiled. He would not use the ring. In a way, Nárya had done its work without having been put to use.  
At that instant, the door flew open as it only did when the King came rushing in like the wind from the West. Seeing the patient poised on the edge of the bed, he halted in mid-stride. 'Captain! You are over-exerting yourself!' he said sternly, though with a glint in his eyes.  
Tárion showed him the Ring of Fire. 'I was testing myself.' He held it out. 'I have no need of it. Thank you for trusting me, Arto.'  
Gil-galad gave him his most forbidding stare. 'It seems that my trust was misplaced.'  
After a rather long silence, Tárion replied dryly: 'I never promised you I would not get up if I felt better, did I? If you leave me alone with something as important as Nárya, why not accept that I can judge minor things like the state of my own health equally well?'  
Gil-galad was grinning and shaking his head at the same time. 'If you believe you are less important than that ring, you are a worse fool than you always say I am.'  
'Arto,' Tárion said, 'if you do not hide "that ring" away right now, I will do so, against your better knowledge.'  
'Stay put!' the King commanded, swiftly closing the distance between them and taking the Ring of Fire. When Nárya was out of sight, he dropped to his knees before the bed to grab Tárion's hands. 'Do you think you can take care of yourself, Valanya? Or I will not be able to march in five days.'  
'Five days??'  
'The Númenoreans claim that is all the time they need to prepare their troops.'  
'Five days,' Tárion repeated darkly. 'I must make haste to get well, then.'  
'Forget it. You are not going to war,' Gil-galad told him. He shivered when his lover's hand traced the outline of one of his ears. 'And I will not be seduced. You are unfit -'  
'Ha!' Tárion interrupted him. 'Why should I want you, in your current mud-spattered state? Take a bath. You smell of wet horse!'  
'Do you think I returned to my apartments just to check on you? But,' Gil-galad went on, 'you are graciously allowed to advise me which stately robe I shall wear for tonight's dinner with all those great Númenorean lords and Tar Minastir's very demanding Ciryatur.'  
'What about the cloudy one with the silver lining? You will look magnificent in it.' But if you believe I will be left behind like a dainty lady while you ride to fight the Enemy, you are sorely mistaken, my heart. Tárion smiled faintly. Gil-galad should have exacted a promise from him. But knowing the past and Turgon's unreasonable demand at the Fall of Gondolin, that was one thing his beloved would never do.  
  
  
***  
  
 **Galadriel**  
  
Kneeling down, Galadriel listened to the speech of plants and stones, trees and rocks. Some had noticed the passing of creatures on legs, but whether these were squirrels or Elves, foxes or Men, they could not tell. However, when she heard the stream complain of rough feet trampling through her waters for a while, she knew what must have happened.  
'They must have used the brook to obscure their trail,' a voice said from behind Gildor Inglorion's back. The young mortal.  
One of the scouts scowled, probably because Beregar had beaten him at it. Galadriel rose with a smile; the Númenorean was by no means stupid. 'Indeed they did. Let us ride upstream for a while.'  
'Upstream? How do you know, lady?' Beregar asked.  
'The stream speaks to her,' Gildor informed him.  
'Can the lady not give her own answers?'  
'She can,' Galadriel said. 'And he is right. I was listening to the voice of the waters.' But they did no longer speak as clearly and beautifully as they used to do in the First Age, when the Lord of Waters sang to the Eldar of Beleriand, and especially to her brother Finrod, with the music of rivers and falls and windswept lakes. But fair Beleriand lay under the waves, and the once splendid caverns of the river Narog where Finrod had dwelled had become the abode of fishes. Regret rose in her like water from a deep and ancient well.  
The company crossed the brook and rode upstream for a while, until the scout on foot raised an arm, motioning them to be silent. They all listened silently for a few heartbeats. Something was crashing through the bushes, not far away. Something rather large, to judge by the noise it made.  
'Should we not hide?' Beregar whispered.  
Galadriel and the mounted scout shook their head.  
'It does not come our way,' Gildor said over his shoulder.  
Suddenly, one of the guards dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and galloped off.  
  
***  
  
 **Glorfindel**  
  
'I trust you know the way back to the Grey Havens, my lady,' Glorfindel said to Celebrían. 'For as I have never been to these lands before, I do not.'  
She adjusted his tunic; it was too wide for her, but the blue fabric matched the silver of her hair as well as it matched his gold. 'If I were you, I would not trust me overmuch,' she replied with a wry smile. 'The Havens are north of the Blue Mountains, but whether we should go due north or more to the northeast, I cannot tell. When they captured me, I was blindfolded.'  
'How long did you ride before they came upon you?'  
'More than half of the night, I think.' she frowned. 'But I did not head straight for the hills when I left. I was... distracted.'  
Distracted, or distraught? Glorfindel said to himself. Now that Celebrían no longer shielded herself so rigidly against him, he could sense a sorrow in her that bordered on grief. He guessed that it had more than a little to do with her reason for leaving Mithlond, apparently in a hurry, and in the dark. Her mind had wandered and she had let her mare run free. 'Do you wish to speak of it?' he asked.  
She shook her head. 'I am sorry.' Her chin went up. 'But you do not have to feel sorry for me.'  
'Then I will not,' he replied gravely. Her defiance was too dignified to be belittled by an indulgent smile.  
Inspecting their surroundings and the sky, Celebrían pointed at a ridge, approximately two miles ahead of them. 'I think we had best climb that, to get a better idee of where we are.  
To this, Glorfindel agreed, and they set out. For a while, they proceeded without speaking, but about fifty feet beneath the top of the ridge Celebrían broke the silence.  
'You say you have never been to these lands before. Does this mean you come from one of the refuges of the Silvan Elves beyond the Misty Mountains? Then how did you cross the territory occupied by the Enemy? And have you been to Imladris first?'  
'No. I did not cross land, but the Great Sea. I come from the West.'  
She halted, blinking, as if he were a Vala suddenly manifesting himself in the _fana_ (1) of a Firstborn. Finally she asked, her tone a little uncertain. 'From Valinor itself?'  
'From Valinor,' Glorfindel confirmed.  
Celebrían looked him up and down as if she was seeking something: a clue, some sort of proof. Not knowing what it was she expected to find he felt strangely exposed, though her gaze did not linger on his bare chest for more than a heartbeat. Quickly, he began to climb the remaining part of the slope.  
'My mother was born and raised in Valinor, before she... departed,' she said, catching up with him.  
'You mean: before she joined the rebellion of Fëanor?' Seeing her frown, Glorfindel raised a hand to forestall her protest. 'It is not my intention to accuse her, my lady,' he said calmly. 'I, too, rebelled against the Valar, and the Curse of Mandos also fell on my head. What is your mother's name? I may know her.'  
'Her father named her Artanis.'  
'Ah.' He smiled. 'Nerwende Artanis, who later acquired the _epessë_ (2) Galadriel. Yes, I do know her.' But it would be best not to tell Galadriel's daughter that once he had been as foolishly smitten with her mother's beauty as almost every other _ner_ (3) in Tirion, he decided.  
Reaching the top of the ridge Celebrían searched his face and asked, her tone a little anxious: 'Did you return to the West at the end of the First Age, when the remaining Noldor were offered the pardon of the Valar?'  
He had hoped it would not occur to her to ask that particular question, loath as he was to speak of his death and re-embodiment with a young maiden whom he barely knew. Some things were impossible to explain, others were too personal. But lying was out of the question. 'I did not,' he told her. 'I returned to the Undying Lands through the Halls of Mandos.'  
That gave her something to digest, and while she was silent Glorfindel surveyed the terrain ahead of them and saw they were going into the right direction: beyond the foothills of the Ered Luin he saw rippling patches of pale light on the blue grey waters of the Estuary of the river Lune. Where it widened into the Gulf he could discern buildings, and quays on both sides of the water, and harbours filled with mighty warships: the Númenorean fleet had anchored. But much closer by, through a gap between two hill flanks, something else caught his attention: movement between the trees, and hints of colour among the foliage. People.  
Beside him, Celebrían murmured: 'I wonder if I would prefer death and rehousing to prolonged exile.'  
'My lady,' Glorfindel said, 'dying is not something I can recommend.'

(TBC)  
  
1)Quenya: raiment (of flesh)  
2)Q.: nickname  
3)Q.: male  
  
  



	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Chapter 18  
  
 **Beregar**  
  
The thing crashing through the trees was a horse, they saw when the scout returned, leading it by the reins. As soon as she set eyes on it the exceedingly beautiful Elf-lady called Galadriel became even paler than she was. Her daughter's mount, Beregar said to himself with detached pity. Not good at all.

The animal's appearance did not change the plans of the Elves, but it did enhance his status: from a sack of luggage behind the back of Gildor Inglorion he was invited to become a rider in his own right. It surprised him that the Lady would invite a Númenorean sailor boy to mount her daughter's horse, but he did not hesitate to accept.

Shortly afterwards, they came upon a spot where the muddy bank of their stream was turned up by many feet, and so they, too, left the water. The tracks continued along the brook, which wound its cold and silvery way toward a narrow gap in the hills. The young man began to wonder where this expedition would end: For all they knew the people they chased were on their way to Dunland or even far Harad, and who could tell how far ahead they were by now. What would the Ciryatur say if he did not return until this war was over and that Dark Lord done with?

His worries turned out to be unjustified. For who did they meet in that gap between the hills but his and Gildor's erstwhile companion Glorfindel, scantily clad, and a girl with silver locks and finely chiseled features who wore the Elf-lord's tunic? That she was lady Galadriel's straying daughter was made abundantly clear by the way she raced towards her, while the Elf lady herself jumped from her horse like a courier about to deliver an urgent letter. They began talking rapidly in an unfamiliar Sindarin dialect.

Beregar grinned when they embraced, and not just because this meant they could give up the chase and head for the Havens. Apparently mothers were the same wherever one went. His own had barely been able to let him embark and sail to war.

That Glorfindel also embraced Galadriel - and in his present state of undress at that - was more of a puzzle to him. They appeared to know each other from a distant past, and she seemed to surprised to see him alive, referring to a heroic death against some fiery demon called Valarauko(1). When it turned out that Glorfindel had indeed been dead for a couple of centuries, Beregar felt decidedly uneasy. Hurriedly, he decided that these were Elvish things that common, down-to-earth mortals had no time and no business dwelling on. To him, Glorfindel looked very much alive; that was what he would stick to. So he dismounted - Galadriel's daughter would want her own horse - and while the Elves exchanged information he waited more or less patiently until the entire company would be ready to turn North.

However, there was a hitch. One of the guards voiced the opinion that the abductors should be tracked and, if possible, captured for interrogation; the King would surely want to know who they were and what they were doing in the Ered Luin. The lady Galadriel and her daughter should return to Mithlond, of course, perhaps accompanied by one other person. But the least the rest of them could do, was trying to find this Orgol and his people.

'It is almost evening,' Beregar objected. 'In the dark they may be difficult to see.'

But Glorfindel supported the idea. 'I believe I can find my way back to that valley,' he said. 'And the leader of this band of mortals must, if possible, be brought before the King - I perceived some evil at work in him that it seems imperative to lay bare. Let us attempt to capture him.'

'And I have felt it, too,' the silver-haired girl said. 'He should not be roaming freely in these lands.'

'A truth that applies to other persons as well,' her mother replied promptly, and despite the deceptively mild tone, Beregar felt that her daughter could expect whatever lecture it was the Elves reserved for wayward offspring. He could see the girl realised it, too.

'Where is your sword, Glorfindel?' Gildor suddenly asked. He was right: the Elf-lord was not only scantily dressed, but also scarcely armed.

'That is another, personal reason why I would find Orgol again,' Glorfindel replied. 'I was disarmed when they captured me, and he took the sword. You know who gifted that blade to me. I would be a most ungrateful recipient if I did not even try to retrieve it.' His gaze seemed to be drawn towards Galadriel.

She gazed back with raised eyebrows.

'Olórin,' Glorfindel told her. Who- or whatever that was.

The eyebrows did not come down at once. Beregar had the impression of some silent kind of exchange taking place.

'There is more to this,' the Elf-lady said at last.

'There is,' the Elf-lord agreed calmly, without any further explanation.

'Who will accompany the ladies back to the Havens?' asked the guard who had raised the matter.

It would have been easy for Beregar to say: 'I will.' He failed to understand why he did not, except that he felt some vague thrill at the prospect of fighting. In the end it was one of the scouts who offered to return with the ladies, taking the horses as well, for Glorfindel thought the animals would not be of much use higher up. The saddlebags were emptied of the remaining packages of food the search party had brought along, and soon, Beregar found himself climbing south with Glorfindel, Gildor, the two guards and the remaining scout.

'How many men are we up against?' he asked Glorfindel.

'Nine, and two women,' was the reply.

Six against nine, then; the women would be easily dealt with. Those odds were not too uneven, Beregar mused. He hoped Glorfindel would be any good without a sword, until he realised the Elf might have other, less usual weapons at his disposal.  
  
***  
  
 **Gil-galad**  
  
The dinner was not too much of a trial. It was obvious to Gil-galad that Tar Minastir's admiral did not like him. But as a well-bred scion of an important Númenorean family, the Ciryatur obviously knew how to cage his personal sentiments in public places. And he did appreciate the food and the wine set before him, for he did not begrudge himself any of the dishes or drinks set before him.

They continued the discussion, begun that afternoon during a first war council, of the planned reconquest of Eriador. The Númenorean troops, mostly camped outside the Havens now, and the Eldar of Lindon would be divided into two separate hosts. One would be arrayed on the flanks of the Emyn Beraid to descend on the Enemy's northern forces. The other host would march southeast to engage Sauron's armies at Sarn Ford and Tharbad - and hopefully join the troops the Ciryatur had previously sent to Lond Daer at the mouth of the Gwathló. If the northern host would prove victorious, it would march on to the besieged valley of Imladris and try to relieve Elrond Half-Elven and the lord Celeborn.

Fortunately, the ships had brought large amounts of supplies, or the High King of the Noldor would be hard put to provide in the material needs of the recently arrived troops. Most of the arable lands of Eriador lay under the Shadow. The country of Lindon, partly covered with mountains, did produce enough to sustain its own population, but there was no surplus.  
It was a poor host who could not feed his guests from his own table, Gil-galad thought sadly. But the delivery of Middle-earth and its oppressed peoples far outweighed his kingly, Noldorin pride, and so, when the Númenorean leader offered him additional provisions for his own troops, he managed to accept them in with grace and humility.

It was not until the Ciryatur brought up the matter of the Dark Lord himself that a note of unease crept into the conversation.

'This Sauron,' he began, 'the servant of Morgoth in ancient Beleriand-now-under-the-waves...' He paused. 'You are certain it is he, my lord King?'

'I am, my lord Ciryatur. He showed the Eldar a friendly face for a while, but he shed his mask of benevolence some years ago,' Gil-galad replied.

'Less than five, I am told,' the admiral mused, stroking a chin on which the shadow of a black beard was becoming more visible by the hour. 'Ere I departed, my lord Tar Minastir, king of Andor the Land of the Gift, discussed the sudden overwhelming power of this Dark Lord with me. Almost seventeen centuries of undisturbed peace, and then without warning he rises and sweeps across the lands of Middle-earth like the avenging wind, trampling almost everything underfoot. We wondered' - he stressed the we ever so slightly - 'what could have caused this. Living far from here, we did not find the answer. Perhaps the High King of the Eldar found it?'

In fact, the High King had the answer without having to seek for it. Vengeance was indeed one of Sauron's motives: the wish to repay the Elves their hiding of the Three and their escape from his attempt to enslave them. And he owed the rapid increase of his powers to the Elven-smiths of Eregion, who had taught them many secrets of heir craft, enabling him to forge his One Ring in the fires of Orodruin and pour much of his essence into it. So, it was to undo the follies and faults of the Elves that Mortal Men had come to these shores. But this was a truth Gil-galad was reluctant to confess. Not yet, not to this man. It was not shame that prevented him from speaking freely, he said to himself, but love. His beloved Middle-earth itself was at stake - and Middle-earth was worth a subterfuge.

'The answer we found,' he said slowly, 'is that he must have been building this power from the day he was pardoned, at the closing of the First Age.' Strictly spoken, this was true enough. 'Alas, since that time we have been lacking in vigilance, for we mistakenly believed him to be sincere when we watched him bend his knees to the Herald of the Valar...'

'You were there?' the Ciryatur interrupted him, sounding a little troubled.

It was not for the first time that Gil-galad was confronted with this slowness to grasp the longevity of the Eldar. Or was it unwillingness? But whatever was the case, he was glad that it seemed to distract the Númenorean from the matter of Sauron's sudden onslaught.  
'I was,' he said. 'I would as lief have speared him on the spot, but one does not slay a supplicant before an emissary of the Holy Ones.'

Now the admiral became curious. 'You bear him a private grudge, my lord?'

'He killed my beloved kinsman Finrod Felagund in his dungeons.' And on hearing this dire news, Artanáro Gil-galad, at the time still in his early youth, had sworn an oath to avenge his great-uncle. It had earned him some sad but indulgent smiles and a considerable amount of derision. Slay Sauron Gorthaur, the mightiest of the Maiar? Who did this stripling think he was?

Yet his oath held. Confronted with Sauron there was only one thing he could do. Fight.

The admiral's next question was predictable: 'You have a personal reason to fight this enemy, then?'

It could damage their cause, if this Númenorean believed he was here to aid in a quest for personal revenge. 'It is first and foremost as King of my own people and protector of Middle-earth that I fight him, my lord Ciryatur,' Gil-galad replied evenly.

Their eyes locked. At last, the mortal was forced to look away. But the King began to be vexed with himself. He was no longer a stripling. He ought to be wiser than to antagonise this man.

'And do you know why the Dark Lord saw fit to strike now, of all times?' the admiral insisted.  
Gil-galad was saved an answer when the doors to the dining Hall flew open, causing a collective silence among Elves and men. The guard who launched himself inside was highly excited. 'My lord King!' he shouted. 'Lady Galadriel is returning to the palace. She has found her daughter!'  
The King jumped up, but he had to steady himself on the edge of the table, giddy as he was with relief. Recovering, he said: 'Excuse me, my lords, ladies,' and strode away to meet the ladies at the gates. He paid little heed to the footsteps that followed him, thinking it was the guard who had brought the news, or some other attendant. It was not until the two women and their lone escort pulled up their mounds, the red evening light colouring the Lady's hair and her daughter's grave countenance above the unfamiliar, too large tunic, that he discovered the unexpected nature of his company.

'Well, well,' the Ciryatur's deep voice spoke at his shoulder. 'Two fair Elven ladies suddenly appear at your gates - passing strange. Do I rightly assume that there is a tale behind this, my lord?'

Gil-galad cast him a glance. It was long enough to see that the Númenorean looked at Galadriel's daughter with what seemed to be more than a passing interest.  
  
(TBC)  
  
1)Quenya for Balrog  
  



	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Gildor**  
  
'So they stole your cloak, too?' Gildor asked Glorfindel, once they were on their way back to the valley where they hoped that Orgol and his company could still be found. He began to unclasp his own cloak.

Glorfindel raised his eyebrows. 'Are you offering me yours?'

'Just for modesty's sake,' Gildor said, referring to Glorfindel's remark after their little wrestling match on that spot near the Gulf(1), when he had been wearing even less than his travelling companion did now. It seemed much longer than a day ago, a confirmation of his secret hopes that these mortal lands would prove a breeding ground for excitement. 'I do not want to suggest you are shivering,' he added.

Glorfindel held out his hand. 'Though I am not in the least ashamed of walking half-naked, this cloak is precisely what I need - lest others think my gooseflesh is a sign of fear.'

With a grin, Gildor handed him the garment. 'And that would be a mistake?'

'Thank you, dear friend,' Glorfindel said rather loudly, draping the cloak around his shoulders and giving the owner a companionable pat on the back. Subduing his voice and approaching Gildor's ear with his mouth he added. 'A mistake? Gildor, Gildor, you have no idea what we are up against.' And with those words he hurried ahead, the only among them who knew the way.

Gildor halted, halfway up the slope they were ascending, not knowing precisely what to make of Glorfindel's last remark. He believes I am not serious enough, he said to himself. And maybe he is right. What have I been through in my life? His worst experience until now was a broken wrist grown hale in less than half a moon(2) - nothing compared to Glorfindel's fall into the abyss beneath Cirith Thoronath, caught in the fiery coils of a Balrog's whip, or to his grandfather's death in Sauron's dungeon, after his fight with the werewolf. Stories, they used to be for him, tales from days that his eyes had never seen. Tales fit to make a young boy shiver pleasantly in his safe little bed, and a somewhat elder boy dream of being the greatest of warriors, who battled balrogs and werewolves and overcame both. And what was he now? A boy playing at being grown-up?

He had to take this seriously. It was a mission for a king he had yet to meet, but whom he was willing to serve against the Enemy. If he had to face death in a fight -  
His heart skipped a beat as realisation struck. Having to face death in a fight would not be the greatest problem.

'Gildor,' a voice said, a few feet above him, 'why do you halt?'

Raising his head, Gildor saw that it was Beregar who spoke. Further up, the other four - Glorfindel, the two guards and the remaining scout - reached the top of the ridge they were scaling and halted, outlined darkly against the evening sky.

'Dusk is near,' Beregar went on. 'If you tarry here, we may not reach that valley before nightfall.'  
'But why should we want to?' Gildor asked, climbing on. 'Under the cover of darkness we will have a better chance to approach these mo- these people unseen.'

The Númenorean frowned, but said nothing.

'How good do mortal men see in the dark?' the scout asked him when they joined the others.

'I could not tell you.'

'Are you not one of them?' said the scout.

'Indeed,' Beregar replied with what Gildor thought was a decidedly crooked grin. 'One. Not all. The quality of mortal eyes tends to vary considerably. All I can do, is show you how well I can see at night, or maybe I should say: how badly, compared to an Elf. Any Elf.'

Glorfindel's mouth curled. 'You will be put to the test before we reach our destination. Our plan is as follows: first' - and he pointed to a small glade further down the slope, dotted with purple flowers - 'we will rest there, and take some food, waiting until dark...'

'I see. You want to attack by night, when you are at an advantage,' Beregar interrupted him. 'Even when those people keep a fire burning and set a watch, you Elves may be able to sneak up close without a sound, knock the watch out from behind and grab the others, including this Orgol you are so eager to lay hands on.' He nodded. 'Well. What is my part? I assure you that I am a good sailor, but a bad sneak. I never did such a thing before.'

'Your role,' replied Glorfindel, 'depends on the quality of your night vision.' He did not correct Beregar, Gildor noticed. For someone mostly dealing with winds, waves and riggings, this young man's perception of the situation ahead was remarkably clear.

'I see,' Beregar said pensively.

In the dell, they sat down on the grass to eat and drink. The search party had brought a beverage made of apples that reminded Gildor of home. This surprised him a little; he had not expected the same kind of trees to grow on both sides of the Sundering Seas. Had the Noldor brought a few apples along on their return to Valinor, at the end of the First Age?

Suddenly, one of the guards turned to Glorfindel. 'What if it comes to a fight, my lord - do we kill?' he asked, addressing him as their undisputed leader. Which, of course, he was.  
'Our aim must be to capture the leader, and incapacitate the rest. 'These people are not orcs, only mortals ensnared by evil, and not irredeemable. So let us not take lives,' Glorfindel replied, pausing before he went on: '... except in the direst need.'

To Gildor's annoyance, his stomach fluttered.  


***  


**Glorfindel**   


Orgol had set a watch. The man hid in the shadows at the entrance of the valley, taking care not to show himself against the faint glow of the nightly fire in the centre. Still, all the Elves could see him, his back against a rock, his spear pointing outward. Beregar thought he could discern movement somewhere ahead of them, but that was all, as he whispered to Glorfindel.

The watchman had indeed shifted his spear a little, and the blade had caught the light of a few stars visible through a gap in the clouds. So the young mortal was not entirely blind at night.

'Good,' Glorfindel whispered back. 'One of us will disable the watchman. You take his place, to prevent anyone from escaping this way.' In the firelight, Beregar would be able to see them coming. 'Repeat my words.'

'You grab the watch,' the young man breathed. 'I bar the way out.'

'Do not kill anyone unless to save your own life.'

'No killing except in self-defence.'

He did not question Glorfindel's right to assign him this task - one that minimised his risk of having to shed the blood of fellow men. The Elf lord realised that Beregar reminded him of Tuor of the Edain House of Hador, the remarkable mortal who had won the hand of Idril, daughter to the King of Gondolin. And this was a simple sailor? But there was no time to pursue this question here and now.

He motioned the scout, the best woodsman among them, to go ahead and deal with the watchman. After a while, his eyes caught a flurry of movement, soon followed by the all-clear signal. He tapped Beregar on the shoulder. 'Hold on to my cloak until you can see where you are going.'

A soft snort, and the rest of the company crept forward.

The scout had knocked his target out and was binding and gagging the man when they joined him. Beregar took up his position and spear, while the five Elves started their advance, remaining well outside the restless patch of dull, orange light. Gildor was nervous, Glorfindel noticed, knowing what his travelling companion dreaded most. He hoped it would not come to that.

A second watchman sat beside the flames, facing the valley mouth. When the Elf lord counted the sleepers lying around the fire, he did not get further than seven. Strange. Together with the two keeping watch this made nine, but this afternoon, there had been eleven. Had the missing members of Orgol's company returned to their dark master, or were they still around, guarding other entrances to the valley that had escaped his attention?

He decided they had no choice but to go forward. When he nodded towards the guard closest to him, the guard began to creep cautiously past the watchman. The others, including Glorfindel, closed in until they reached the edge of the firelight.

The sudden, piercing alarm cry from the bushes nearby made him wince. He realised that one of the women of the group must have left previously to relieve herself. Wheeling, he managed to dodge the knife she threw at him in the nick of time. Behind him, he heard the confusing noises of men scrambling up, cursing and shouting. At least two people cried out in pain, and his ears caught a gurgling sound that boded ill for the one who emitted it.

When the woman ran towards the entrance of the valley, Glorfindel spun, casting aside Gildor's cloak to be able to move more freely. He took in the scene in two heartbeats. Two men fled into the opposite direction. Two were down, and so was one of the Elven guards. Three men, Orgol among them, were fighting the other Elves.

By showing himself unveiled, as he was in the Blessed Realm, Glorfindel might have put an end to the violence if not a fourth man had attacked him right then, stabbing at him with a short sword. Quick like lightning the Elf lord evaded it, sweeping past the blade to hit his assailant on the jaw with his fist. Obviously he used too much of his considerable strength, for he heard an ominous crack. His enemy screamed and dropped his weapon, and his hands flew to his face. Glorfindel turned back to the others, just in time to see Orgol go down, a blade buried in his stomach.

At the same moment, the person fighting the scout ducked to launch himself - no, herself - at Orgol's fallen body. Steel flashed. The woman, hardly more than a girl, veered up and bolted, while the scout landed on his knees, unbalanced by the momentum of a blow that hit nothing but air instead of meeting with solid resistance.

Gildor, white as a sheet even in the light of the flames, stared at the sword rising from Orgol's stomach. The Man's eyelids fluttered, and he emitted a strange, rattling sound. Glorfindel took a step towards him, just when the second guard knocked the last of their opponents down. It was then that he saw the blood on Orgol's hand - the hand where the ring should have been.  
One finger was missing.(3)

Immediately, he raced after the fleeing woman, hoping that Beregar would intercept her. She was to far ahead even for his long strides to catch up with her.

At the mouth of the valley, a figure sprawled on the ground, not visibly wounded, the watchman's spear tumbled across her legs. But this was the woman who had fled first, Glorfindel saw. The girl who had cut the ringed finger from Orgol's hand, was nowhere to be seen.

And neither was Beregar.  


(TBC)  
  
1)see the end of Chapter 9  
2)Elves heal faster than humans, see the Commentary to the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, in the History of Middle-earth, Volume 10.  
3)Sorry, but I couldn't resist the temptation to include some finger cutting.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Chapter 20  
  
 **Galadriel**  
  
The King listened intently to her account. They were sitting in his library, in a silent palace; it was late. Celebrían, properly chastised and for once the meek young daughter, had left to take a bath and go to bed. She had avoided Gil-galad's face, except for the brief time it took her to offer apologies, which he hurriedly dismissed as being misplaced. But Galadriel did not mind too much if he blamed himself a little for the trouble her daughter had landed herself in: Celebrían had acted foolishly and in distress, but while she was wholly responsible for the folly, he was at least partly responsible for the distress. His bond with the captain of his guard was unusual enough to catch the unwary by surprise, and dubious enough to be frowned at - and not just by an infatuated maiden.

Yet this was of minor importance beside the presence of evil nearby in the Ered Luin, and the appearance of a re-embodied Noldorin exile in the lands of Middle-earth.

'Glorfindel,' Gil-galad mused. 'I have heard much about him and his heroic deed at the Eagle's Pass, both from Tárion and others who survived the Fall of Gondolin. Fascinating to think that such a legend is walking our shores now. And a grandson of Finrod, too...' He seemed to lose himself in memories, not all of them fond, and a shadow crossed his youthful face. Artanáro Gil-galad had his own burdens to bear; he too was a survivor of a fallen kingdom, with a father slain in battle and a sister speared to a tree by Morgoth's orcs.

Galadriel, warding off the fire and the smoke, the blood and destruction that assailed the gates of her own long memory, waited for him to grope back to the present.

'A pity they did not return with you,' he continued at last. 'Did they state their errand?'

'They did not,' she replied, 'though Glorfindel undoubtedly has one. What little I gleaned from his mind tells me that the divine spirits from before Arda are involved, perhaps even the Greater Powers, and that he was sent back to Middle-earth for a purpose. I think we will hear more about this soon.'

'Provided he does arrive.'

'If my eyes do not deceive me,' Galadriel said slowly, 'there is little in these lands that can prevent him from doing so, if that is his wish. The Enemy, but nothing else, I deem.'

'Speaking of whom...' Gil-galad said, 'if I rightly understand your tale, Glorfindel said there was a ring that appeared to be a - conduit of evil?'

She nodded. 'So he did. Celebrían also saw this ring, and she sensed the evil, though it was Glorfindel who connected the two.'

'It could be one of Celebrimbor's rings. He and his smiths made a great many of them,' the King remarked with a frown of concentration.

So he had, and most had been taken by Annatar-Sauron, to be used for his purpose of dominating and enslaving others. Unfortunately, no one alive knew the exact nature and number of these other rings. For Celebrimbor had died, and with him all the members of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, the Guild of Jewelers of Eregion, as far as she could tell. Celebrimbor had erred, but to what extent? How far did the consequences of his mistakes reach?

She could only hope Gil-galad did not judge Celebrimbor too harshly. Fëanor's only grandson had been deeply in love with her, and though she had been unable to return his love, bound as she was to Celeborn, she had understood him better than anyone alive. The last of the Fëanorians, so eager to redress the ills of his House, that he was blind to the darkness in himself and the dangers of his innate ambitions.

Yet she doubted whether Gil-galad was capable of seeing it this way. He would remember too vividly how Celebrimbor's father had driven Finrod to his death and tried to usurp the crown of Nargothrond.

With an abrupt movement that betrayed some inner restlessness, Gil-galad rose and strode to the nearest bookshelf. After a brief hesitation he took down a thin, unadorned volume. But he did not look into it, and when he spoke, it was not of Celebrimbor. 'This mortal, Beregar,' he began, 'what do you make of him, great-aunt? What is he doing there?'

'He proved a clever young man, and pleasant enough company,' Galadriel replied, 'yet he seemed to avoid my eyes, and I did not have the opportunity to take him aside and search his soul. Nor could Glorfindel and Gildor tell me why he left the admiral's ship and joined them.'

'Maybe the Ciryatur of Númenor knows the reason,' Gil-galad said.

'Now there,' said Galadriel promptly, 'is a man whose soul I would be eager to search.'

She immediately regretted the sharpness of her voice, but it did not escape the King. 'So you disliked the fellow at first sight,' he said almost smugly.

Galadriel shook her head: the High King of the Eldar should be above such pettiness. 'This has nothing to do with my likes or dislikes. Let me rather say that something in him stirs up doubt in my heart and mind.'

'So you do not trust him.' Gil-galad's thumb slid across the cover of the manuscript from the bookshelf in a caressing gesture. 'But that is worse than mere dislike, is it not? If you should chance to speak with him, will you attempt to fathom Tar Minastir's admiral for me?' He smiled, as if to encourage her.

Galadriel, who needed no such encouragement, did not smile back. 'I would - for the sake of our struggle against the Dark.'  


***  
  
 **Beregar**  
  
He was still trying to bar the woman's escape from the valley with the help of the watchman's spear, when another, younger woman came running up. 'Halt!' he cried. A futile command, for almost without breaking stride she dived under the spear shaft, and launched herself into the passage leading out of the valley. The first woman, seeing his attention diverted, used the opportunity to try and get away as well. But Beregar noticed it from the corner of his eye, and in a reflex he flipped the butt of the spear up and around, aiming it at her head. When the wood connected with her skull, she slid soundlessly to the ground.

Dropping the spear he remained immobile, but only for an instant. He was supposed to let no one escape. So he wheeled to pursue the young woman into the darkness.

Though at first he could see almost nothing, he went forward with outstretched hands, knowing the first resistance they would meet with was a row of bushes just outside the valley. He listened carefully, assuming that the fugitive saw as little as he did, perhaps even less, and would soon stumble into some obstacle or other, thereby betraying her whereabouts. But the clamour of the fight going on behind him, however distant, overrode all other sounds - if there were any, for she could just as well have halted, just to mislead him. Straining his eyes, he tried to penetrate the blackness ahead. But it seemed useless, and he would have given up if not at that moment a gust of wind had blown aside the curtain of clouds far enough to reveal a thin sliver of silvery moonlight.

Faint as it was, it was enough to see her among the rustling trees and bushes, no more than a dozen yards ahead of him. Beregar leapt forward, but she saw him and fled. He followed her along the slope she negotiated, noticing that she was young and agile and that her feet were nimbler than his, yet knowing that he had the stronger legs.

Even so, it took him annoyingly long before he was able to catch his prey, and mainly because she stumbled and fell down. Drawing his dagger he dropped to his knees, and sitting astride her back he put the tip to the side of her neck. It was then Beregar saw that she clutched something peculiar in her left fist. There seemed to be blood on it. When he tried to pry it out she began to fight him, ranting in a foreign language - yet the reason he let go of her hand was that the object it held was a finger.

'Whose finger is this? Why are you holding it?' he asked in Adunaic, without much hope of a response. But Quenya seemed even more pointless.

Just as he decided she was not going to reply she replied in the same language: 'Curse you Elves!'

'I am no Elf,' Beregar told her with a satisfaction that surprised even himself. 'I am a man of Númenor. Elves do not use this tongue.'

The next moment, his pride was put to the test. 'A Númenorean. That is even worse. The high and haughty Elves talk down to us, and their eyes pierce our souls. But they leave the woods alone.'  
  
'And we do not?'

'You have a whole island for yourselves! Yet you come here and cut down our forests for your proud ships and lofty palaces, without asking if those who live here need the animals for food and fur, and the wood for their homes and hearths.'

For a child of a lesser people, she was remarkably well spoken. All the same, Beregar was angry. 'This is the first time I set foot in Middle-earth,' he objected. 'I never cut down any of your precious trees!' What a weird discussion; why did he prolong it, sitting on top of her while she kept clutching that severed finger? Though it was fortunate that she did: the idea alone was a remedy against arousal. Suddenly, he decided he had enough of it. 'And now, answer me. Whose finger is this? Did you cut it off?'

Silence. But this time, he did pry her fingers open, resisting the temptation to use his dagger. Once more she fought and cursed him, managing to turn on her back. But he squeezed her firmly between his knees, and in the end he was able to snatch away the grisly thing, quickly dropping it to avoid further contact. Gazing at it he saw a narrow band of gold below the second knuckle, adorned with a stone like the eye of a wild cat.

'Ah, I see,' he said. 'You wanted to steal a pretty trinket! You are a common thief.'

'I am not!' she snapped, hitting his thighs with her fists. 'It is mine!'

While she said it, clouds obscured the moon again. The ring remained visible, though, glowing faintly and almost ghostly in the dark.  


***  
  
 **Tárion**  


He left the path of his dreams to re-enter the waking world because of a movement close by. Looking aside he discovered that Gil-galad had joined him, the first time since Tárion's injury that he did not use the mattress his servants had put beside the great bed. Does he think I am well enough to bear his nightly tossings? Tárion wondered, resolving to keep this in mind as a possible argument in favour of his own recovery. Though he had to admit Gil-galad seemed preoccupied, and had possibly just forgotten he was going to sleep on the floor again. And he was not going to sleep yet, so much was clear. Instead of lying down he remained sitting, a booklet on his knees, illuminated by the steady glow of an ancient Fëanorian lamp. For a while, the Captain of the King's Guard merely gazed contentedly at his lover's profile, outlined in a crystalline sheen that made his hair glint like burnished gold. But finally he asked: 'What are you reading?'

Turning his head, Gil-galad grinned. 'Words. Yours, to be precise. The report of your sojourn in Ost-in-Edhil with Celebrimbor's Mirdain. The one I bound in leather, with a royally calligraphed title page. Despite the fact that you are the author I failed to learn the content by heart, so I'll have to reread it.'

'To look for what?'

'Things about rings.'

Tárion smiled. 'In that case, skip the first half, which is mainly about mechanical devices and the stories Celebrimbor used to tell over a goblet of wine - or a carafe. But what is it you are looking for? I wrote little about the Three there.' Actually, he had not written much about rings at all, and less than he had learned about them. He had not been sure what it was he had learned, nor what exactly it meant, and he had not wanted to present anything but certainties in his report.

Gil-galad shook his head. 'This does not directly involve the Three.'

Raising himself on an elbow Tárion eyed him inquisitively. 'What happened? Before I went to rest I heard that the lady Galadriel was back with her daughter, to my undying relief. But could it be that there is more news than Celebrían's safe return?'

'There is.' Abruptly, Gil-galad laid aside his lecture and shut the lamp case, causing the glow to fade. The gesture made it plain that he did not want to stop reading the report as much as prevent his lover from reading his face. And this usually meant that he had something to tell but did not know how, because of the effect it might have. Tárion's mind brushed against Gil-galad's, a mental caress that was returned at once - and for a moment Gil-galad seemed to waver, on the verge of sharing. But then he withdrew.

It was late. Tárion decided to give it some time. Nestling against his bedmate he murmured: 'I am sure it can wait.'

Silently, Gil-galad pressed his lips against his lover's hair.  
  
  
(TBC)  
  



	21. Chapter Twenty-one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Gildor**   
  
_Ah, Elentari Star Queen..._

Shaking, Gildor's hand went to the hilt of the sword sticking out of Orgol's stomach. Maybe he ought to pull it out. Or maybe the man would bleed to death if he did. Unless he was dead already. His face was much too still, the eyelids half closed, the mouth half open. Gildor could not remember having ever felt this bad before, and his throat made a choking noise.

A detached voice drifted towards him out of nowhere. 'If you are going to be sick, my lord,' it said, 'you had better do it in the bushes.'

Stumbling, Gildor managed to reach the nearest shrub before his rising stomach rid itself of its contents. The disgusting act left a foul taste in his mouth, his knees turned to jelly and he shivered. It was as if the mortality of these lands was somehow contagious, infesting every region of his body with disease.

Slowly, he turned around. The scout and one guard were each tying up one of Orgol's men, using the captives' own belts. A third man lay motionless; Gildor could not see if he was dead or alive. The other Elvish guard was also down, but he did move, albeit feebly. From the entrance of the valley Glorfindel approached, carrying a limp form in his arm.

The whole scene reminded Gildor of a tale told by a skilled storyteller, the way it was done at home: everything vividly alive, visible, audible, even tangible, yet clearly distinct and distinguishable from the larger reality in which it was enacted. The difference was that there was no larger reality here. The tale going on around him was all there was; he was imprisoned in it while it enfolded itself, and he had to act the part assigned to him, unable to withdraw.

He watched Glorfindel lay down his burden, as a mother would put an infant back into the crib.

'Dead?' the scout inquired.

'Merely unconscious. But I fear she will have to be bound all the same.'

Nodding, the scout proceeded to do so, while the unscathed guard helped his comrade, who was bleeding from a head wound, to sit up. Glorfindel knelt beside Orgol to examine him at length. By the time he was done, Gildor had ceased trembling, but he still felt ill.

Closing Orgol's eyes, Glorfindel looked up, but he remained silent.

'I did not...' Gildor began, his voice unsteady. 'It was never my intention to-'

'Calm down, mellon. The man attempted to kill you, did he not?' There was naught but sympathy in Glorfindel's voice.

Gildor nodded miserably.

'What is wrong about self-defence?' Glorfindel rose and came towards him.

Gildor shook his head. 'I slew the one man who should have stayed alive.'

'At the cost of your own life? He would not have spared you. He hurt you even now,' Glorfindel said, gesturing at Gildor's shoulder.

Surprised, for he had not felt any physical pain until now, Gildor raised a hesitant hand to touch himself. When it came away red, it dawned on him that it was not his own failure that hurt so badly, or not in the first place. It was the killing itself, the bloodshed.

Indeed, the other Elf replied into his mind, as if Gildor's emotions spilled over and he caught them. It is a terrible thing to slay someone, even if he is evil.

Suddenly, Gildor had to blink back tears. I have lost my innocence, have I not?

Yes, and I know how this must affect you, for I have learned to dread it. Glorfindel closed the remaining distance between them and touched the younger Elf's cheek, his face seeming to reflect all the sadness of Arda marred.

For a moment, Gildor failed to understand him, but then he knew. On leaving the Halls of Mandos Glorfindel had received a new life along with his new body, pure and untainted by anything his first body had done or experienced. But with it, he had also received the risk of losing that purity again - and by coming to Middle-earth, that risk was multiplied a hundred times.

It had to be something Glorfindel dreaded more than anyone - because he knew what it meant. Gildor placed his own hand over Glorfindel's, overwhelmed by the desire to spare his traveling companion the agony of repeating this experience. Mighty as his spirit had become, he remained in need of protection. Perhaps it was presumption on his part, but if it was in the power of Gildor son of Inglor, to give it...

He swallowed - and was reminded of the sour, unpleasant taste in his mouth. 'I need a drink,' he croaked.

Not much later he sat beside the newly fed campfire sharing the remaining contents of a water flask with the wounded guard. They had four prisoners; the woman, who had come to and was muttering ugly sounding words in her own language; the incapacitated guardsman at the entrance of the valley; and two others, one with a swollen jaw to which Glorfindel vainly tried to apply a healing touch, because the man howled too loudly at the mere approach of the Elf lord's hand. The scout had also killed his opponent, but seemed to bear it with equanimity. Unless the diligence with which he was piling stones on the corpses of the dead was a form of atonement.  
Glorfindel, wrapped in his own cloak, which he had retrieved together with his sword, summed up the situation. Three of the mortals had escaped, including the female who had cut off Orgol's ring. There was no telling whether Beregar would find his way back here, whether he caught her or not. They could wait a while, as it was hardly to be expected that their captives were capable of walking by night with their hands tied behind their backs. But if the Númenorean had not returned by first light, they would not tarry here.

'But one of us should go ahead to inform the High King. Perhaps he can spare us some horses,' Glorfindel concluded. 'Not that we deserve them.' He sighed. 'This expedition cannot possibly be called successful.'

Nobody gainsaid him.

'I will go ahead,' the scout offered, dropping the last stone on the pile covering Orgol.  
  
***  
  
 **The Ciryatur**  


The bed was excellent, and the palace was quiet. All the same, the Ciryatur woke up before dawn. For a while, he lay thinking of the silver-haired Elf maid who remained sitting on her horse in a corner of his mind, looking utterly enchanting in the moonlight. But not for long; he hated to lie awake doing nothing.

He rose and found his way to the window to watch the southeastern horizon. No signs of the dawn yet. Without waking his aide or any of the other servants, he dressed and left the suite assigned to him. Outside, crystalline lamps, like those in the royal palace at Armenelos lighted the corridor. He had always wanted to know what the Elves did to make their lamps shine so brightly without using fire, but the one time he had asked, they had not been able to explain it to him. When he had pointed this out to them, they had asked him if he thought he could explain to a bird how it was to have arms. A most arrogant answer.

His feet led him to a kind of covered courtyard with a stairwell and a softly splashing, surprisingly melodious fountain. Its music had a soothing effect, he discovered, but he had no wish to be soothed, so he climbed the stairs instead. At the top, greatly to his surprise, he met the silver-haired maid.

' _Mae govannen_ , my lady,' he said in his best Sindarin, not knowing if she had Quenya. 'You look radiant enough to make the sun reluctant to rise, knowing that she will pale beside you.

She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. 'Let us hope that the sun-maiden does not see it that way, my lord. Though I love the stars, I would miss the day, should it fail to break.'

'So, you are not up because you prefer the night, in order to shine the more brightly?'

'Both day and night are dear to me to me,' she replied promptly, ignoring his invitation to be more forthcoming.

The Ciryatur decided it was enough, for a start. He smiled as if she had accepted his compliment.

'A wise lady, I deem. Would you be so kind to direct me to your King's private quarters?'

She seemed reluctant, as if his request put her in a mild sort of quandary.

'It is a matter of some urgency.'

'Very well, my lord,' she said at last.

No guards stood posted outside the royal quarters, but this did not surprise him. This Elvenking seemed to suffer from an innate lack of formality; that Glorfindel fellow had not been so bad, after all.

He opened a few doors and found, among other rooms, a library dimly lit by the first grey streaks of approaching dawn. Though it would be interesting to discover what writings Gil-galad considered useful or pleasant, the Ciryatur suppressed his curiosity and opened the next door.

The lamp just outside the door illuminated part of the room, and he could see one half of a large bed, and a mattress on the floor beside. The mattress was empty. The bed was occupied, by two persons lying too closely together to be anything but a couple. And even as the Ciryatur stepped inside to take a better look, on half of the couple sat up.

It was the King. The part of him that was visible above the sheets was clad only in his unbraided, slightly tangled locks. 'Good morning, my lord Ciryatur,' he said amiably when he saw the Númenorean. 'You honour me by waking me in person.'

The sound of his voice obviously roused his bedmate: the admiral saw something move under the covers. 'It is the Ciryatur of Númenor paying a visit,' Gil-galad told whoever it was, and turning back to the admiral he explained: 'The captain of my guard was wounded in a skirmish, a few days ago, and is still on his way to recovery. You will excuse him if he does not sit up to greet you?'

Another male. I knew it!. Those rumours about Elvish habits were true, then; no smoke without a fire. 'Is it common practice for the High Kings of the Noldor to nurse wounded officers in the royal bed?' the Ciryatur inquired, with a slight edge to his curiosity.

'I could not tell you, being the only High King of the Noldor I have ever been familiar with.' Gil-galad rose, stepped across the mattress and walked to a dress stand to cover all of his six feet and more with a dark blue robe. From there he went to the nearest window to pull the curtains aside and let the dawn inside. 'Is there something you need to discuss with me, my lord admiral?'  
'There is,' the Ciryatur replied. 'It concerns one of my men, who left my ship before we sailed into the Havens. It occurred to me that the ladies who returned yestereve may have met him in the hills. But maybe we should speak of it elsewhere, so as not to disturb your - captain any further.' He was rather satisfied with himself: this hardly even sounded like a stratagem.

'Catamite?' asked Gil-galad. 'Is that a Númenorean term? What does it mean?'

The admiral felt his cheeks grow hot. He could not imagine he had actually used that word, though it had indeed been in his mind. Had the Elvenking read his thoughts? He cast a glance at the bed. Its remaining occupant had raised himself on an elbow and was staring - no, glaring - at the King with piercing grey eyes in a pale face, framed by long, raven black hair.

'You must have misheard me,' he replied coldly. 'Captain, was what I said.' And with an effort, he tried to think of nothing, in case these Elves continued their mental prying.  
  
(TBC)  


 


	22. Chapter Twenty-two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Glorfindel**  
  
They left the valley at dawn. Gildor made up the rear, subdued and pensive. His wound was a mere scratch and would not bother him much, but Glorfindel wished he were better able to heal Gildor's less visible hurts. The younger Elf had embarked on this journey of his own free will, though both Glorfindel and Finrod had warned him that the lands of Middle-earth were mortal and not seldom dark and that encounters with death were inevitable here. Having to slay a man who might have proved redeemable, instead of one of the Glamhoth(1), seemed a hard way to drive such a truth home.

Still, he was on his way to safety and a meeting with his own kindred and kin. Not so their captives. For all they knew, a terrible fate awaited them at the end of their present road. Orgol had feared the Elves, so much was clear. There was no telling what lies about the elder race his master had fed him and his people, but Glorfindel cringed inwardly when he looked at their faces. They held anger and defiance, fear and resignation, but no hope, not even of the lesser kind that the Eldar called 'looking up'. It was one thing to be detested and dreaded by orcs, but the hatred of these mortals weighed heavily on him.

Something must be done about it, he decided. Though he shared no tongue with them, some form of exchange had to be possible. At this slow pace, it would take them until dusk to reach their destination, as the Elves from the Havens calculated, so he had one day to find a way into the gloom of these mortal minds, hoping he would be able to carry a ray of light with him.

As soon as the occasion offered itself, during their first rest, he turned towards them. The captives sat huddled together, their hands still tied behind their backs, some of them looking anxiously at the bows held by the two guards. How could they know that the Elves would not shoot to kill, should any of them attempt to flee? Glorfindel sat down in front of them, crossing his legs. It was the woman who looked up first, her face grim with bitterness.

'Do not fear us so,' he said, simultaneously conveying the thought. 'The Eldar do not kill the defenceless.' The Age of Kinslayings was over. Had to be over.  
  
He caught the meaning of the words she hissed at him: Easy to say.

'What makes it so difficult to believe?'

Blades, was the answer. Bound hands. Death.

Now, the others started paying attention, too. He tried to explain to them that, if they suffered to be led to the Elvenking in Mithlond, they might find the Elves more friendly than the master they had served until now.

The oldest of the mortals spoke up, a man with a leathery face and thin, grey hair. The master would not agree, he replied. Elves are...

Elves were what? The man's thoughts were garbled, and Glorfindel was unable to follow him. He frowned - not in the last place because at that moment, Gildor joined them. The younger Elf's presence might spoil everything yet; for after all it was by his hand that their leader had fallen.

You had better go, Glorfindel suggested to him.

With a shake of his head, Gildor sat down beside him on the ground. 'What was it you said, sir?' he asked the grey man, eyeing him intently. Some of the others glowered at him, and one man spat in the grass. The grey man scowled, but suddenly, in an accusing voice, he launched himself into what actually seemed to be an answer.

Gildor's face acquired a look of intense concentration. At one point, he interrupted the man. 'Heal the forests?' he asked in a puzzled tone.

The man nodded, and continued to speak. Now the woman chimed in, too. Númenor, Glorfindel caught. It sounded like a curse.

At last, the tale appeared to be told. After a long silence, Gildor uttered a sequence of words, slowly, a little haltingly - but in the language of Orgol's people.

The mortals gaped, even more surprised than Glorfindel, who needed but little time to realise whence Gildor's linguistic prowess hailed. It was Gildor's grandsire Finrod Felagund who, upon his first encounter with mortal men in the First Age, had learned their tongue by simultaneously registering words and thoughts, combining what he heard with what he knew about the workings of language. Gildor had quite obviously inherited this ability.

He repeated his words, leaning forward as if he was offering part of himself to them - and at last the woman responded.

After a short exchange Gildor turned to Glorfindel. 'I doubt whether I understand it all correctly, and some of it fails to make sense,' he said. 'But the native lands of these people appear to have suffered badly from the axes of the Númenoreans. This "master" of theirs claims that the Elves have the means and abilities to heal the hurts of the earth, but that they will use them only for their own good and begrudge them to all others. Also, the Elves have allied themselves with Númenor, and like the Númenoreans, they despise what they call 'lesser mortals', who can be shot like animals, if it suits the lordly ones.' He appeared as troubled as Glorfindel felt. 'What have our kinsmen been up to, all these years? What makes these people believe that we can heal the wounds of the Earth like a physician heals the hurts of the body? And if the Eldar of Middle-earth do know how to work such wonders, why would they keep their knowledge to themselves? This is beyond my comprehension; clearly my understanding of this mortal tongue is too limited still.'

It is not, I fear, Glorfindel thought, hiding his dismay from the staring eyes of their captives. Though the account of these people was a mixture of lies and half-truths, he understood it well enough. They would have to be interrogated further and their words would have to be sifted, but what he had heard so far was worse than the Elder King(2) had predicted and his friend and teacher Olórin had feared. His mission seemed daunting indeed. Too daunting, perhaps.  
  
***  
  
 **Beregar**  
  
The severed finger was clammy to the touch, and Beregar gagged when he pried the ring off. He tucked the piece of jewelry safely away. Beneath him, the girl stopped squirming. She stared up at him, her eyes black holes in a face framed by a mess of dark hair.

'Why do you claim this ring?' he asked her.

'You have it,' she snapped. 'So gloat, and let me go.'

He laughed curtly. 'Forget it. I will take you to Mithlond, to the Númenorean shiplords and the Elvenking of Lindon. No doubt they will be curious to hear what your little war band was doing here.'

This appeared to be a dreadful prospect, for a shudder ran through her body. 'Then you will have to drag me there, for I will refuse to walk.'

'In that case I shall carry you, but I think I shall truss you up first to prevent you from kicking and beating me when you are dangling over my shoulder.' He shifted his weight and began to fumble for her belt clasp.

'If you mean to rape me...' she cried in a shrill voice.

Beregar, who had no intention to do so, suddenly saw how he could manipulate her fears. 'And what will you do to prevent it?' he asked tauntingly. 'Tell me more about this little trinket you cut from your leader's hand? Or about the reason for your presence in the foothills of the Ered Luin?'

She was silent, and he allowed his hand to crawl up her ribcage towards her left breast. A dangerous game, for he was not sure where the limits of his restraint lay. But before he could touch the dangerous curve, she grabbed his wrist and yanked his arm away. 'How do I know I can trust you?'

'When my fellow Númenoreans cut down those trees, did they also rape the woman of your people?' Actually, he could imagine that some of them had, but at the same time he was prepared to swear the offenders must have been punished by their betters. Whatever this girl might claim, the Edain of Elenna the Starward knew the meaning of honour.

'Very well,' she said finally, in a composed voice. 'If you swear you will not violate me, nor truss me up to carry me like a bundle, I will answer your questions to my best ability.'

At that moment, the moon reappeared, and looking up Beregar noticed that the wind rose to blow away the clouds. The moonlight was bright enough to set out for the Elf-havens right away, which seemed the best thing to do, as he was too excited to sleep anyway. But he realised he could not trust his captive to walk along meekly, so he said: 'You will also consent to be held on a leash.' He would loop the belt around her neck; that way, she would risk to strangle herself if she took to her heels.

'Turning me into a dog?' the girl said caustically. 'How like a Númenorean. But as you wish - if you give me your oath,' she added, with an air of dignity that seemed oddly at variance with the bloody robbery she had committed earlier.

'I shall not take you by force.' Beregar raised his voice. 'So I swear by...' He fell silent. Not his honour; keeping a woman on a leash could hardly be called honourable, though it was not entirely unpleasant either. '... by that ring,' he said at last, earning himself a fiery flash from her eyes.

Not much later they were ready to go, she with the belt around her neck, Beregar with the loose end in his hand. 'Where do we go?' she wanted to know.

 

Looking around, Beregar suddenly realised his plan had a serious flaw: he had lost his bearings during the chase. So he told her the one thing he knew with any certainty: 'South.'

To his surprise, she cast a fleeting glance at the moon and started to walk. Either she had a better sense of time and place than he had - or she planned to lead him astray. He followed her lead, touching the handle of his stabbing sword with his free hand.

They descended a hillside until they reached a glade, silvery grey in the moonlight. It looked familiar, and Beregar realised this was where he had camped with the Elves the previous evening. So they were going into the right direction, and she was not misleading him. Not yet.

'Now tell me your story,' he commanded.

'That ring belonged to my father,' she said when they entered the woods again and negotiated a forest floor dappled with pale flecks of moonlight. 'He was not of Orgol's people. He was a great lord from the South, who married Orgol's sister - my mother - though his relatives claimed she was far beneath him. My father never stayed long with us, but he returned every twelvemoon to visit his wife and the daughters she bore him. I am the younger of the two; my sister is married and stays at home. It was my father who taught us the language I am speaking now.'

Interesting. Could her father have been a Númenorean lord who had settled on the coasts of Middle-earth? It would explain the disdain in which this 'great lord's' relatives held their kinsman's leman - for that was all this girl's mother could be; that she was his wife seemed out of the question. 'What is your name, niece of Orgol?' Beregar asked.

'I am Zabathân.'

Adunaic for 'humbled'. Either she was trying to mock him because of the leash, or it was a deliberate - and telling - choice made by her father. 'I do not believe you,' he told her. 'You offered me that name far too easily. Nor do I like it. I shall call you... Dolgunithil.'

She halted, wheeling. 'You bastard! I - am - Zabathân!'

Beregar smiled thinly. Dolgunithil meant 'Night-maiden' - but dolgu was the evil word for night, the good word being lômi, a loan from Quenya. He felt no remorse, being more and more inclined to think that Zabathân was a dig at him, and not her real name. 'I will call you Zaba,' he said in a tone of finality. 'Now continue your tale.'

'First give me your own name.'

'Call me Falmalion.' Son of many waves - a good name for a sailor.

Zaba snorted. 'Well then - Falmalion. Two years ago, when my father visited us again, he showed us a precious ring of gold with a gemstone, a gift from an even greater lord than he was, who went by the name of Annatar. My father had entered his service. One day he would take us along to meet this Annatar, he said, and we would receive gifts of our own. That was his promise. But my mother's brother was promised nothing, and he coveted this precious ring, and before my father departed Orgol poisoned him with cowlweed(3) and took it from him. I hate - hated him.'

'Then what were you doing in his company?'

She laughed curtly. 'He thought I did not know he was my father's murderer. When the lord Annatar marched against the Elves, he left his home with his band of companions and his wife. He hoped to find Annatar, and serve him, and be rewarded. That is how we ended up in those hills. I joined him when it was too late to send me back, and awaited my chance. Tonight, I thought I was lucky. But now,' and all of a sudden Zaba spat like a cat, 'you have robbed me of my father's ring, and it was all for nothing.'

Indeed he had. And to be honest, it troubled him greatly. Perhaps it was the play of light and shadow among the trees, the wind whispering weirdly in the leaves, the strangeness of the situation, but Beregar strongly felt that something was not right. Uncanny, it was - a night decidedly more dolgu than lômi.

'And I intend to keep it,' he said aloud.  


(TBC)  


1)Sindarin: Noisy horde  
2)Manwë  
3)A silly attempt to 'translate' monk's hood into Middle-earth terms.  


 


	23. Chapter Twenty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Tárion**  
  
As soon as the Ciryatur had closed the door behind his back, Tárion sat up. 'Did you have to embarrass the man, Arto?' he said disapprovingly. 'He did say "captain", though I admit the other word was foremost in his mind and his tongue almost slipped.'

Gil-galad shrugged. 'I merely asked him what "catamite" meant. It is not a word I have ever heard before. If my question was embarrassing, something must be wrong - either with the word itself, or with the thought that lead to its use, would you not think so?'

Tárion shook his head. 'You will not fool me by trying to look innocent. The fact that he refrained from speaking the word aloud was indication enough that it was dubious. I do not know the meaning either, but it would surprise me if it were a compliment. And this is a man with whom you had better remain on good terms.'

'I know, Valanya, I know.' Gil-galad seemed contrite, though not nearly enough. He went to his wardrobe. 'We need his help. Middle-earth needs him, or Sauron's darkness may engulf it yet. I can only hope that I will never have to grovel before him, for to be frank, this is not a mortal I could ever bring myself to estimate.' He turned back towards his lover. 'He wanted to know why it was in this time that Sauron had gone to the attack. It did not seem wise to tell him of Celebrimbor, and how he and his jewel-smiths succumbed to the deceptions of the Enemy.'

Nor would the Ciryatur hear it from anyone else here in Lindon, whether Galadriel, or Círdan, or Tárion himself. Elrond and Celeborn were far away in besieged Imladris, but they, too, would never reveal it of their own accord. And no others among the living knew why the world East of the Great Sea was imperilled again, for the Gwaith-i-Mírdain had all perished, and Mandos kept their spirits confined in his Halls.

'Yet the time may come,' Tárion concluded aloud, knowing that Gil-galad was aware of his thoughts, 'that we shall have to disclose all.'

'Let us pray that it will not be in this Ciryatur's time,' muttered the King. He stared at the bed. 'You are doing it again, Valanya.'

It was only now that Tárion noticed he was covering the scarred half of his chest with the bed sheet. He dropped it. 'And I thought I had rid myself of that habit,' he said frowning in annoyance, realising too well that such a relapse meant he felt exposed in some way - and not to his lover.

'You will succeed yet,' Gil-galad said. Suddenly his eyes fell on Tárion's sketchbook, which had slid to the floor some time during the night. Picking it up, he studied the portrait Tárion had drawn last. 'Who is this? I do not think I know him.'

'You do not, for you have never met him. It is Glorfindel. The famous Balrog slayer of Gondolin, of honoured and cherished memory.' Tárion smiled wistfully.

Gil-galad could not have been more astonished. 'What? Who? Why draw Glorfindel, of all -' He checked himself.

Too late. Suddenly, Tárion understood what must have guided his hand when he made this portrait. 'He has returned to Endor, has he not?' he said slowly. 'Incredible as it seems, Glorfindel is here, and the lady Galadriel has met him. Has she not, Arto? That was what you were so loath to tell me, last night.' His voice was thin and taut; if he spoke but one more word, it would snap. His fist clutched the coverlets. Glorfindel as a memory of the past was one thing, but to have him nearby as a living reality...

'Yes - and rightly so,' Gil-galad burst out. 'Clearly, it wakes up past sorrows that should have remained asleep.' He sat down on the bed, his hands closing over Tárion's. 'Easy, my love. If he arrives here, you will not see him until you are ready to face your memories of Gondolin.'

I do not fear my memories of the fall Gondolin anymore, Tárion wanted to say. This is about something else. But was it, truly? And why not let Gil-galad believe that he still dreaded the memories of fire, ruin and death that an encounter with Glorfindel might stir up in his soul? After, all how could he even know whether Nárya had entirely cured him of those fears?

Yet it was another part of his past that shook him so. It was not a shadow of flame that Glorfindel of Gondolin cast ahead, but one of a very different kind.

Time to leave my bed, he said to himself, or I will never stop brooding.

No sooner had Gil-galad closed the door behind him, or Tárion rose from the bed. I feel well, he told himself. Not perfect, but well enough.

While he dressed, he found himself thinking of Nárya again, and of other rings of power. What exactly was it that Celebrimbor had been telling him, back in Eregion, when he had blurted out his misgivings over a few cups of wine?  


***

**Beregar**   


By the time it was light Zaba informed him that she could impossibly go on without taking a long rest. He was only too happy to grant it to her; they had pushed on for most of the night, pausing only briefly to drink from a brook they crossed, and he was hardly less tired. The girl curled up in a leaf-strewn hollow in the ground. It did not seem to bother her that the leaves were moist, as she fell asleep at once. She had to be exhausted indeed.

Beregar tied the end of her 'leash' to his belt, which brought her close enough for him to hear her regular breathing. Now that it was light he could see her more clearly, and he observed her for a while. She was on the thin side, but not unattractive: a firm mouth, high cheekbones, dark hair bound back by a strap of leather, long lashes, and long legs. But for her skin, which was a little too dark, she looked deceptively like a woman of Númenor.

Pulling his sword from its sheath he laid it across his thighs, and then he took out Orgol's ring. The ring that had belonged to Zaba's father, if what she had told was true. He stared at the pale gold, gleaming in the early morning light. Or my ring. But that was no more than a stray thought, for if this thing did not belong to Zaba, it should go to the Ciryatur.

At that moment, he felt the urge to put it on. Just once, to look if it would fit his finger, he told himself. Not to keep it, of course. If he took Zaba to the Ciryatur, she would speak of it, and he would have to hand it over anyway. Unless he let the girl go. Or killed her, to make sure she would not come after him and betray him, or worse.

But she trusted him despite all her accusations against the Númenoreans, or she would not have gone to sleep so easily. He had sworn not to rape her. That oath he would keep. But he had not sworn to spare her life, had he? He looked from the peacefully sleeping girl to the ring in his palm. A plain, narrow band of gold adorned with a small green gemstone that could be an emerald, but just as well a stone of lesser value. Nothing special, really. Not something you need to live long and prosper, is it, Beregar Falmalion? Not an object to covet at the cost of your conscience.

So, why would he desire it?

At that moment, Zaba suddenly opened her eyes, as if his thought had roused her from sleep. 'In case you consider to kill me,' she said softly, 'I must warn you. It would not be the wisest thing to do. There is a secret to this ring that not even Orgol knew - nor did the Master called Annatar ever reveal it to him, or he would have used his knowledge to survive. But I know what it is. My father told it to me, shortly before he died of Orgol's poison.'

He could, of course, repeat his threat to rape her if she would not divulge the secret. Her part of the bargain was openness, was it not, and now it turned out she was withholding important information. But looking at the girl, Beregar suddenly realised he did not want to harm her - not to such an extent, though he felt she did deserve some form of chastisement for that barbarian act of cutting off Orgol's finger. Moreover, if he did not want to become the kind of man he despised, he owed it to himself as well to find another way to make Zaba speak.

By winning her trust, for instance.

 

***  


**Gil-galad**   


The High King studied the most recent reports the scouts had brought in. Most of the enemy outposts in the Emyn Beraid appeared to be withdrawing towards the river Baranduin in the Southeast: orcs, evil beasts and birds, and corrupted mortals. It was easy to guess they would rejoin Sauron's main host to defend the Sarn Ford, the only crossing between the Sea and the Baranduin Bridge, against the combined armies of Lindon and Númenor.

Some of the troops, though, were heading due south past the Ered Luin; the accursed crebain must have warned the Dark Lord that the Númenorean admiral had sent one third of his fleet to Lond Daer at the mouth of the river Gwáthlo. Some of Sauron's other forces were probably also heading that way. Gil-galad had send spies further southeast, but most of these had not returned - not yet, he hoped - while the few who had, were unable to tell him what the other enemy forces had been instructed to do. The war captains who had landed at Lond Daer were now marching on Tharbad, hopefully in time to intercept any troops that tried to join the Dark Lord's main host at the Ford.

The armies of Elves and mortals would also have to reckon with many smaller forces coming from all over Eriador to join Sauron, except from the direction of besieged Imladris. But though they would still be outnumbered, they were not without a chance, the King said to himself.

When the last of the messengers, a youth sent by one of the Númenorean captains, had delivered his report and was about to leave Gil-galad raised a hand. 'A moment, if you please. Though this has no bearing on your message or the upcoming confrontation, I would ask you a question.'

They were alone in the room, and this seemed as good a moment as any to satisfy his curiosity.  
He waited for a nod of assent, until he realised that the young man took his words for an order to stay, instead of a request, and was waiting for the King to speak on. The habits of the Númenoreans were changing, becoming more formal and hierarchicall, riddled with rules, rituals and rights of precedence, Gil-galad mused. 'Well then,' he said. 'If you do not wish to answer, tell me so. What I need to know, is the meaning of the word catamite.'

When he saw the youth flush with acute embarrassment he knew they had been right to suspect the term. You do not have to reply, he was about to say; it is of no matter. But the other opened his mouth. 'It is a... we use this word for a... for a young man who allows himself to be... used like a woman by another, older man.'

With an effort, Gil-galad schooled his face. He did not immediately know what to say. The messenger stared at him with a mixture of aggression and apprehension, and the King suddenly realised that the young man's ears had heard his less-than-innocent question as a barely veiled, immodest proposal. 'I see.' He kept his voice carefully neutral. 'Thank you, sir; you may go now.'

With an audible sigh of relief the messenger bowed and left in a hurry.

I wonder what Tárion will say to this, was the first thing Gil-galad thought when the young man had backed off. The second was: So they do this thing among themselves, though they are ashamed of it and condemn it in others.

The third thought - and he could not help smiling maliciously to himself - was: Even so, our friend the Ciryatur did not get his facts entirely straight. Maybe I will disabuse him of his erroneous notions one day soon.  


(TBC)

 


	24. Chapter Twenty-four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Celebrían**  
  
Much to Celebrían's relief, her mother had intercepted the Númenorean admiral directly after the breakfast session at the royal table. She hoped he would be subjected to relentless scrutiny and end up properly subdued, for his eyes had a way of roaming over her that was more than a little disturbing. Did he think he was Beren Erchamion or Tuor son of Huor, that he could win a daughter of the Eldar? she thought - until she realised it was the man who troubled her, not his mortality.

Celebrían sighed, for it occurred to her that her own pursuit of Gil-galad had not been much loftier, though they were of the same kindred. Her vain pursuit, she corrected herself. Could it be that she was fated to remain alone, pining away for love unrequited until she faded? But what was love? she found herself wondering. How could she be sure that she had truly lost her heart - or that such a loss was irremediable?

She resolved to seek advice. But not from her mother, whose counsel tended to be coloured by too much concern regarding her own and only child. What she need was impartial wisdom - and she knew where too find it: with Círdan the Shipwright.

The quays were busier than usual, crowded with the big, loud and sometimes ungainly men of Númenor. Their tall ships, fitted out with oars as well as sails and looking like floating castles, were all huge enough to harbour one of the slender Elven vessels inside their bellies. Flocks of seagulls circled about the masts, screeching and wailing.

Círdan was not in the harbour, nor in one of the shipyards, but passing by the archery butts she saw him at last, watching a contingent of shipwrights-turned-bowmen practise their shooting skills. He, too, had a bow, but it was unstrung. Instead, he was talking to someone dressed in the silver-blue cloak of the royal guard, embroidered with the King's arms.

Celebrian froze, for the one standing beside Círdan was Tárion, Captain of the King's guard and master of the King's heart, apparently far enough recovered to be afoot. And she felt betrayed, even though she told herself that there was no reason why the Shipwright should not be talking to the Captain as if they were old friends. They were. But confiding in Círdan was out of the question now.

She was about to return to the palace when she saw Círdan string his bow and hand it to the Captain, together with a grey-feathered arrow. Tárion threw his cloak back, nocked, and without pausing to aim - or so it seemed to Celebrían - he put the arrow squarely into one of the targets before handing the bow back to the Shipwright.

Bull's eye. Of course, she thought. He was a warrior, after all and despite everything. It would never do to think that Gil-galad's lover thanked his position to anything but his fighting skills and his capacity to lead the King's guard.

Time to leave, she though. Turning away from Captain and Shipwright, Celebrían was struck by an idea that was so strange that she forgot to pay attention to her surroundings for a while. And so it came to pass that, back in the harbour, she suddenly found herself in the company of two tall Númenoreans, who flanked her on either side. They smelled unpleasant and unfamiliar; if they were drunk, it was not on wine.

'What is such a fair young maid doing alone in a crowd full of sailors? Not very wise,' declared one of them, and the other added: 'We had better accompany her to some safe place. What about our ship?'

It had never before occurred to Celebrían that she needed company when she went out, because the need had never arisen until now. Maybe her experience with Orgol's men should have taught her to be less naïve, but how could she have known that even Númenoreans did not always keep their lusts in check? Her hairs rose. 'Thank you, sirs, but I can find my way home,' she said in a tight voice, increasing her pace a little.

They did the same. 'Good idea,' said the first man to his companion, ignoring her.  
Or rather, ignoring her words, for his hand came to rest on the small of her back. 'Will you please remove that, sir?'

'Move it? As you wish, sweet maid.' The hand crept down.

Celebrían felt herself flush for shame and anger. She spun towards him. 'Despite the scarcity of their years, some mortal men are still too long-lived, it would seem.'

He grabbed her arm, his face going red. 'You pointy-eared bitch, do you think -'

'If I were you, I would let go of the lady,' someone interrupted him. 'In which case a report to your superiors could, perhaps, be avoided.'

They all turned. The speaker was Captain Tárion.

His face was even paler than was usual in one of the Eldar, and he looked far from well. Had he overexerted himself by walking all the way to the archery butts, and shooting that arrow? She feared that in this condition, he would hardly be able to master one of those men, let alone both. Yet it did not deter him. A storm built in his dark grey eyes while they locked with those of the man who held her arm. Celebrían, mortified, refused to think what might happen if any harm befell him in her defence. 'Release me!' she ordered the Númenorean, attempting to sound like her mother did in certain situations: clear black ice over deep, cold waters.

She did not know what it was that had the desired effect: Tárion's words, the threat on his face, her tone, the attention they were drawing from Elves and mortals alike, the fact that this was, after all, Eldarin territory, or all of these together - but the man obeyed.

'You can go now,' Tárion told the two Númenoreans.

When they had gone he turned towards her, and she saw him sway for a moment. 'Will you accompany me back to the palace, lady Celebrían?' he asked courtesy, making it sound as if he asked her a favour, instead of offering her protection, or at least the semblance of it. Maybe he was.

It was almost more painful than hearing Gil-galad say he loved him, and her desire to refuse was strong: how could she walk side by side with him? But she had already fled once, that night when she took her horse and allowed herself to be carried away. And she knew, not that her cause was lost, but that it had never existed. There was only one road she could take: the one that led onward.

'I will, my lord Captain,' she replied with hard-won calm. She could only hope that before they reached the palace, she could summon the courage to broach the subject she needed to discuss with him.  


***  


**Galadriel**   


She saw them on the tower, the High King pointing southeast, the Ciryatur shielding his eyes against the mid-morning sun. Naturally, Gil-galad's eyesight reached as far as the Baranduin, beyond the gap between the Emyn Beraid and the Ered Luin (1), but Galadriel doubted if the mortal's eyes were keen enough to see the rippling silver of its waters across the leagues.

When she joined them the two were talking of war and weaponry, but they broke off their conversation to greet her. As Galadriel preferred to discuss the struggle against the Dark Lord without the Numenórean admiral, she did not mind; nor had she ascended the tower to speak of the upcoming battle.

I leave him to you now, Gil-galad spoke into her mind before he turned towards the winding stair. She nodded once and walked over to where the Ciryatur stood at the parapet, staring across the undulating, sunlit fields.

'A beautiful country, Lindon,' he remarked, casting her a glance. 'It reminds me of my homeland, though this is new and interesting. I am not sure what I would rather do: explore it at leisure or cross it at speed to engage the foe.'

'If we prevail against the Dark Lord, you will be able to do both,' Galadriel said. 'And you are right, my lord admiral: the lands of Middle-earth are fair indeed, and though my true home lies in the West, they are precious to me, treasures to be preserved against... whatever would damage them.'

'Then it appears we have one thing in common, though we be of different kindreds, as Time is your enemy as well as ours,' he remarked, turning aside to give her his full attention - and receiving hers in return. 'We mortals are doomed to die, and the same sun that calls forth the flower also causes it to whither. Perhaps this is the reason why the Elves prefer to watch these fields and hills and streams, by the light of the stars?'

'I love them in any light, and at any time,' she replied, catching his eyes to search his soul, though he had already bared part of it of his own accord. 'And even the stars can die.'

He did not flinch or look away. 'Some do, but most stars merely move away to return after a while, never leaving the vault of the sky, unless the heavens themselves be rent apart.'

Loath to speak of the End of Arda with him Galadriel remained silent, until he finally tore his eyes from her gaze, bowed and left rather quickly.

She had not known many mortals in the long yeni of her exile. But those she had met reminded her of the woods of ancient, lost Doriath and her new home, Lórinand (2): patches of light amidst shades of night, like a dappled forest floor; the twilight beneath the canopy of leaves pierced by sudden, blinding rays of sunshine. The Eldalië were different: their spirits glowed more evenly. They could shine brightly or dimly, in the same way that the luminosity of the stars could vary, but with them, there was no abrupt crossing from light into darkness, and back. A strange race, come alive with the rising of the Sun and marred like the face of the wayward Moon.

Her thoughts strayed for a moment. Despite their strangeness, her brother Finrod had loved mortals. And he had allowed his love become his undoing. Is that what true love is? she found herself wondering. Allowing your love to become your undoing, because you will lose it when you do not?

As Celebrimbor's love of Arda had become his undoing, when he made his attempt to impart a little changelessness to these changing lands? What guarantee was there, that one's true love was the right love?

She pulled herself together, concentrating on what knowledge she had gained of the Ciryatur. Though no longer a young man, he was in the prime of life, strong of body, without any other signs of aging than the same loss of childlike wonder that dulled the eyes of many adults among mortals. His resolve was firm, his mind ordered; he possessed both the patience to wait for the right moment and the insight to know when it was there. But the woods of his soul were dense and sunbeams few and far between. And what guided his steps were thoughts of means and ends, rather than questions of right and wrong.

What troubled Galadriel most was that there were areas into which her mind's eye was unable to penetrate, as if she was walking in a fog. Perhaps she could force it to lift, but such were the ways of the Enemy, whose eye would ravish all that it could. Yet she could sense the envy of Eldarin longevity hiding in the heart of this mortal forest of a man, the awareness of death, and the fear of dying.

But why was death so dreadful to them? Galadriel wondered. _Why, if it is a gift?_  


***  


**Gildor**   


Before they resumed their march, Glorfindel ordered the guards to untie the hands of their prisoners. Both guards objected, until he pointed out that the mortals were unarmed and would hardly be able to outrun them. If each elf would keep an eye on one of their captives, the chance that any of them would escape was small. Glorfindel did not mention his uneasy conscience, but Gildor was fairly sure that it lay at the root of his decision.

The mortal he was supposed to watch was the elderly man. The easiest prey, but Gildor had not expected to be assigned the hardest task after having unintentionally killed Orgol. His own conscience was more than uneasy: it still hurt. As did his vanity, if he was honest with himself: he had acquitted himself less than well in his first serious fight.

When they moved on he succeeded in banishing Orgol's dead face from his memory, but it was promptly replaced by that of the girl who had cut off Orgol's finger. He wondered what had become of her. Would Beregar have caught her, was he still chasing her, or would he be lost, trying to find the way to the Havens?

'Glorfindel,' he said, keeping an eye on his mortal, 'should we not search for the girl that took the ring, or for Beregar?'

The other shook his head. 'They are ahead of us, moving towards Mithlond, like we are. Or one of them, at least.'

'You can sense their presence ahead?' Gildor asked, amazed. Sometimes, there was no telling how far Glorfindel's powers reached, but this seemed hard to believe.

'Not theirs. But I faintly sense the presence of the ring, whether it is in Beregar's possession or the girl's. I feel it as a faint itch inside my head.'

'Where you can't scratch...' Briefly, Gildor looked aside, but his grin disappeared when he saw that it actually bothered Glorfindel. 'Why can you sense it?' he asked, a little subdued.

'I am not sure,' Glorfindel replied, 'but the explanation could be, that the ring touched me when Orgol slapped my face.'

So Orgol had hit Glorfindel? But when Gildor told himself he could feel less guilty now for killing the man, it failed to have the desired effect.

Shortly after they set out again, his's ears caught a faint rumbling, somewhere ahead. The other Elves heard it too, and they tensed, listening in silence. The mortals seemed at a loss.

'Hoof beats,' one of the guards said at last. 'Coming this way.'

'Riders, sent by the King,' the other supposed

Their captives looked more apprehensive than ever. 'There is no need to worry,' Gildor told them in their own language, anticipating Glorfindel's request. He wondered if he had used the correct words, for none of them looked relieved.

The second guard was almost right. It turned out the King had sent only one rider, but he brought six extra horses: four unsaddled and unbridled, for the Elves; two saddled with the reins tied to the pommel. Being Elven horses the animals followed the rider of their own accord, and they waited calmly while he hailed the company.

The rider himself was surprised. 'Eight people? I was told to expect six, at most.'

Six? Four Elves, Beregar, and Orgol, if captured - but apparently no others. What could this mean? That the High King assumed they were ruthless enough to kill Orgol's followers? Careless enough to let them run? Or merciful enough to let them go? Gildor wished he knew, as it would tell him something essential about the unknown kinsman he would in all probability meet before nightfall.

A hand landed softly on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. 'I have need of you, master of tongues,' Glorfindel said.

A few moments later, Gildor found himself inquiring whether the four mortals would follow the Elves to the Havens of their own free will, if given the choice. Or, that was what he hoped he asked.

Apparently he did. Glorfindel's offer baffled them as much as anyone - except Gildor himself, who knew his traveling companion well enough by now to have expected this.

The grey haired man wanted to go home, embarking on a long rant against Orgol, who had led them all astray in those miserable Blue Mountains, and if he had but known... One of the other men agreed with him, but the woman declared her intention to come along, and the third man - the one with the swollen jaw - nodded at her words. They had a bone to pick with this Elvenking, and with Númenor, she added.

Privately, Gildor doubted if a High King beset by enemies would be prepared to engage in bone-picking with a couple of disgruntled mortals, and the idea that the Ciryatur of Númenor would even pause to hear their complaints was distinctly funny. It seemed best to him not to translate that last announcement; after all it was possible that he had misunderstood them. He dismissed the idea they would want to lodge a complaint against him because he had killed Orgol.

The important thing was that everyone was mounted now and they could proceed at speed. In a few hours, he would finally set eyes upon the largest remaining settlement of the High Elves in Middle-earth.  


(TBC)  


1)assuming the earth wasn't bent yet during the Second Age  
2)the original name of Lothlorien

 


	25. Chapter Twenty-five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Chapter 25

**Beregar**

'You never slept, did you?' Beregar asked. 'You just pretended to.'

Zaba sat up. 'I did; lightly, though I do not expect you to believe me. The chill and my empty stomach woke me up. Which is just as well.' She gazed pointedly at the weapon across Beregar's legs.

He rose to sheathe it, still clutching the leash. If he had preserved some of the food the Elves had given him the night before, he could have offered it to her, if only to show her that he did not mean her any... real harm. He was hungry, too, but a Númenorean sailor could do without a meal. Or two. 'Perhaps we can catch ourselves some game,' he said, though he knew that hunting would be impossible for lack of bow or spear, while setting a trap and waiting for the next haunch of venison to walk into it would take far too much time.

'Does your kind feed on raw meat, Falmalion?' Zaba asked mockingly. Though she did not say it aloud, Beregar could almost hear her think: Like the predators you are?

He hesitated between: How like your kind to suggest such a thing, and: No, except when the name of the game is female. In the end, he said nothing at all.

'Or do you have flint and steel?' Zaba continued. When he shook his head she went on: 'Then we will have to content ourselves with dew, tree-bark and the hope of food ahead. How far is this grey haven where you are taking me?'

'Less than a day from here,' Beregar replied, attempting to sound more confident than he was. It was not as if he had ever been there before. Nor was he certain he would be able to find the place.

'Then let us move on.'

'Are you that eager to meet your destiny?'

'Perhaps I have met it already,' she replied promptly.

He was not quite sure what she meant, unless this was her way of telling him that she thought him capable of anything. Well, maybe it would encourage her to disclose the secret of Orgol's ring.

'Move on, then,' he said, waving vaguely with his hand.

Zaba leaped to her feet and set off, pulling her leash taut enough to make him wonder why she was trying to strangle herself.

He dropped it. The girl wheeled and stared at him. 'Why do you not run?' Beregar asked, but he knew the answer. He ought to have realised long before that Zaba would never leave him without the ring.

After a thoughtful silence she replied: 'If you dropped it by mistake, you will catch me again. If not, there is no need for me to run.'

'No mistake. I mean you well.' Beregar could only hope she would believe in his show of good will.

'Then give me my ring back,' Zaba retorted promptly, removing the belt from her neck and clasping it around her waist again.

'I might do just that, if you tell me about its secret.'

'Do you believe yourself, son of the shifty waves? There is no way I will tell you.'

'What an interesting reply,' Beregar told her, managing to ignore the slight. 'It would suggest that knowledge of its secret will make me want to keep the ring, would you not say so? And that, in itself, would be more than enough to make me want to keep the ring - were it not that honour and duty bid me to deliver it into the hands of the lord admiral of Númenor.'

Her eyes flashed, but to his satisfaction she kept her mouth shut. He ought to win this battle of wits and wills: she was female, very young, and at best a half-breed. He would have to remain on his guard, though.

They plodded on. At some point, Beregar's stomach grumbled audibly, and when Zaba halted he did the same, preparing for a scathing remark, and ready to retaliate. But all she said was: 'Horses.'

'I hear nothing of the kind,' he said. 'Are you an Elf in disguise?'

'A woman.' Zaba smiled maliciously. 'We have keener ears.'

The next moment, he heard it, too. 'Let us seek cover, lest these riders mean you harm,' he told her. 'It would not surprise me if these were fierce Elves with piercing eyes. You never know what they are up to.'

Crouching between the bushes side by side with Zaba, Beregar saw he was not entirely right. Of the horses that passed them by at a distance of about fifty yards, all but one were riderless. Sent by the Elves of Mithlond to provide Glorfindel, Gildor and whoever was still with them with mounds, he guessed.

Realising that the Elves would probably return the same way some time later, he considered waiting for them in order to rejoin their company and ride the last part of the way. Eventually he decided against it. They would undoubtedly be aware of what Zaba had done, last night in Orgol's camp. They were very likely to ask questions. She was capable of telling them that he had the ring now, and if they would not use some Elvish trick to take it for themselves, they might use another Elvish trick to make him return it. Better to let them pass by. The horses were useful enough as it was, for they solved his orientation problem. All Zaba and he had to do was follow the hoof prints back to reach their destination.

 

***

**Glorfindel**  
  
From the last hilltop, the Havens seemed smaller than they had looked from the deck of the admiral's ship. Almost insignificant - as if their builders were children, compared to the mighty Eldar of the First Age who had raised Gondolin the White in memory of Tirion upon Túna in the Blessed Realm. The powers of the Firstborn have indeed begun to wane in Middle-earth, Glorfindel said to himself. As Olórin and the Lord of the Breath of Arda had foretold before his departure.

Yet the might of the Eldar would still be enough to overthrow the Dark Lord, if only they fought the right battle and made the right choices. One of the tasks he had been charged with, was to offer them counsel and a choice. Much would depend on the High King and Lady Galadriel. He could only hope that Finarfin's great-grandson would prove easier to deal with than his iron-willed daughter.

Outside Mithlond, the Númenorean encampment fanned out irregularly, occupying every available patch of level ground. It was considerably much larger than Glorfindel had expected given the number of vessels in the Ciryatur's fleet, but scanning the camp his eyes also found many Elvish tents in the dark blue and shimmering silver of the High King of the Noldor. The forces of the Eldar had already joined their mortal allies - but they were visibly fewer in number.

The company began to descend the last slope towards the encampment and the town beyond. Gildor, whose bright eyes began to shine through the clouds on his face again when his gaze swept across tents, town and quays towards the glittering Gulf of Lune, turned aside and asked: 'What do you think, Glorfindel - would Gil-galad consider it improper if I sought out the admiral first, to tell him that we lost Beregar? Not that we ever promised the man to keep an eye on him, but it seems right to inform him.'

At least Gildor asked his opinion now. Compared to his jump overboard, this could be called progression. 'If you were to put it like that,' Glorfindel told him mildly, 'it might indeed be considered improper, given the ambiguity of the word "lost".'

'Why? We do not know whether the boy is alive or dead.'

Glorfindel suppressed a smile at the word boy. When it came to experience, Gildor could lay as much claim to that title as the young sailor. 'Why declare a man dead before you have seen his body? Orgol's ring is still moving. It is behind us now, for we passed it some time ago, but it remains headed for the Havens. A direction Beregar is more likely to take than this girl - from which I infer that he is alive.' That Beregar had killed the girl to lay hands on the ring was a possibility Glorfindel refused to consider yet, loath to believe the worst before he was certain that it had come to pass.

'So,' Gildor said, 'I can properly go to the admiral first, provided that I inform him Beregar is not lost?'

'Most certainly,' Glorfindel said with a stony face. 'Do tell the Ciryatur about your joint adventure. Keep him interested and occupied. Win me the time I shall need to advise King Gil-galad that Beregar had best be intercepted...'

'... before he can divulge the existence of Orgol's trinket to anyone else, including the Ciryatur. Or above all the Ciryatur,' Gildor finished Glorfindel's sentence.

Definitely progressing - and he seemed to have overcome the worst of his guilt as well. 'Do not mistake me,' Glorfindel warned. 'I do not claim this is proper behaviour. But sometimes, propriety is a lesser concern.'

The southeastern gate of Mithlond loomed close now. It was made of steel, and well-wrought like any other work of the Noldor, but Glorfindel doubted it could withstand the full onslaught of the Enemy, if put to the test. His faith in the strength of gates had fallen into the abyss together with his burning body: Gondolin had boasted of seven gates, yet none of them had kept the Enemy out. Not strength, but secrecy had protected the fairest city ever to adorn the face of Endor, and treachery and misplaced trust in the work of Elvenhand had doomed it.

The gatekeepers eyed them curiously, paying more attention to the mortals than to the other members of the company. With their sallow complexion, coarse hair and black eyes the two looked out of place among the tall, pale-skinned and fair-faced Elves, and Glorfindel saw their apprehension grow under the intense scrutiny of his fellow Firstborn. He turned to Gildor. 'Perhaps we should see these two safely lodged before you seek out the admiral.'

One of the gatekeepers overheard him. 'The mighty Ciryatur of Númenor?' he said, while his companion waved the company on. 'Seek in the royal palace and you shall find him. Though I hear he is a haughty man who does not suffer Elves gladly.'

Gildor smiled. 'I know. It is possible you owe that particular favour to me.'

'Then allow me to thank you, my lord...,' the gatekeeper said promptly, sketching a bow and making Glorfindel wonder if he was being pert, or if this was normal behaviour among the High-King's soldiers.

'My name is Gildor, and I am always happy to oblige.'

_Keep a rein on yourself, Gildor, lest you go to far one day_ , Glorfindel warned him silently. _As the Vanyar say: Life will be less sad the fewer follies you have to regret._

_And much too sedate_ , was Gildor's reply. _I have Noldorin blood, remember? Just like you do. Why else are you here, but to become a matter of story and song?_

That is something you will discover soon now... But this was a thought Glorfindel kept to himself.

  
***

**Tárion**  
  
He was in a quandary. What Celebrían wanted was foolish, rash and founded on anything but reason. Why help her carry out the wild plan she had just laid before him, asking, or rather, demanding his assistance - except because he was no wiser than Galadriel's daughter? Now that Círdan had pledged to aid him in his endeavour, could he in all fairness refuse to do the same for her?

If only Celebrían would not do it for the wrong reason. The love she thought she had lost had never been hers to lose. But she believed otherwise. And so she had appealed to the one who, in her eyes, marred her happiness, thinking that if she had any chance of finding support, it was with the King's captain and lover.

Tárion could have told her that he did not stand between her and the one she longed for. He wondered if, in truth, she did not rather love Gil-galad, the radiant High King of the Noldor, than Artanáro of Nargothrond - his Arto, his soul-mate of all the long yeni of the Second Age, the one for whom he would cut his heart out and doom his soul to Mandos until the end of days and beyond, if the need arose.

Yet, at the same time, he knew that Celebrían would do for her King what he would do for his beloved; could he deny her what he would not deny himself?

He sighed. If he agreed to do as she asked he would have to outwit a shrewd Shipwright as well as a clever King. No mean feat - should he prove to be successful.

Concentrating on his art usually had the effect of cleansing and clearing his mind. Stretched on his own bed in his own room to rest his body from the exertions of the morning, Tárion lifted his eyes towards the rough sketch of Gondolin on the wall in front of him. He studied it intently, watching it grow before his mind's eye, until he could remain idle no more but had to put his hand to it to bring the vision one step closer to visibility. So he rose, declaring himself fit enough.

He picked up a piece of charcoal from a table in the corner and began to work on the figure standing on the balcony of the King's Tower. The lonely figure of Turgon, whose wife had perished on the Helcaraxë and who had built a city from passion unslaked.

(TBC)  


 


	26. Chapter Twenty-six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**The Ciryatur**

He was dreaming heavily, after a copious noon meal. Someone was about to be buried in the Noirinan in the shadow of the Meneltarma, among the laments of kin and friends. It could not be a king, as the mourning procession was not headed for the Royal Tombs. Nonetheless the deceased must have been a great man in his lifetime, for a king graced the burial with his presence. It was not Tar-Minastir, so it must be his successor, though his face was unfamiliar to the Ciryatur. He was hovering close enough to ask the King a question between the slow, muffled beats of the mourning drums: 'Could you tell me, please, who is being buried, sire?'

And without looking aside the King answered: 'Why - my late father's former admiral, of course. What a strange thing to ask. Were you properly invited?'

What a weird question - was he invited to attend his own funeral? As if he could have thanked no! The Ciryatur started from sleep, his heart beating frantically against his ribcage. Someone was knocking on his door. Sitting up in his bed he realised he had drowsed off fully dressed. 'Enter!' he croaked when the knocking did not cease, and with some difficulty he rose from the bed, just before the door opened.

At first he thought it was Gil-galad who stepped inside, dressed very casually in none-too-clean garments, but when his eyes cleared he found that it was not so. It was that strange Elf from the Undying Lands who had dived overboard into the Gulf of Lune, some days ago. Gildor, the more obnoxious of his two Eldarin passengers.

The Elf inclined his head. 'I hope I do not disturb you, my lord admiral?'

Even had his life depended on it, the Ciryatur would still have been reluctant to admit that he had fallen asleep like an old man. He could only hope that his hair and his robe did not betray him. 'No,' he said curtly, his heart still pounding. 'What is it?'

'I have come to bring you word of your man Beregar,' said Gildor.

'Beregar? If you are here, then why does he not come personally?' the admiral asked, immediately on edge, which did nothing to improve his condition.

Gildor spread his hands. 'He is not yet here. He disappeared last night. Undoubtedly,' he continued, 'you will want to hear the whole story, my lord.'

It was not a question. The admiral sat down on the edge of his bed, preparing to listen. Pillar of Heaven, what had happened?

Unfortunately, in his Elvish way, Gildor appeared to be as long-winded as some of the lords and ladies at the court of Armenelos. If the telling had outpaced the tale a little more, the Ciryatur might actually have enjoyed the living images the Elf conjured up before his eyes in the middle of the room. Now, fearing Gildor would never finish his account before the joined armies of Lindon and Númenor would march to war, he raised a hand. 'Do I need to be shown every detail of the scenery? Hear every remark about the weather that any of you made the last few days?'

The images dissolved and the Elf raised both his eyebrows. 'I assumed you would wish to know everything Beregar saw and heard,' he said.

'For mortals, time is more precious than an Elf can fathom,' the Ciryatur said, ignoring the insolent suggestion that Beregar had been sent along as a spy. 'Tell, do not show, please. I leave it to your discretion to judge what is relevant.'

This helped - to a certain degree. But when Gildor finished speaking, the Ciryatur still wanted to know what had happened in the valley, what could have caused Beregar to run after this girl, and what could be the reasons why he had not returned.

The replies were invariably vague, especially the answer to the admiral's last question: how could Glorfindel know that Beregar was on his way to the Havens, instead of wandering aimlessly through hills and woods?

With a frown the Ciryatur repeated Gildor's answer. 'He can feel it?' Am I supposed to believe anything where Elves are concerned? 'How?'

A prolonged sigh. 'That is very difficult to explain.'

Of course he would jealously guard the mystery. The Ciryatur gave up. 'Do you know, Gildor, that you remind me of your High King?' And not only outwardly. Gil-galad could also be very evasive and unforthcoming.

The Elf smiled. 'That is not to be wondered at, for we are kinsmen. His grandsire was a younger brother of mine. But,' he added almost as an afterthought, 'he is not my King. That is Finarfin, son of Finwë, who rules the Noldor in Tirion upon Túna. My great-grandsire.'

Gildor's tone was just proud enough to give him away. 'But are you not subject to the High King's rule, then, now that you have entered his realm?' the Ciryatur asked.

This seemed to give the Elf pause, for he remained remarkable silent.

'I can see why you hesitate, if he is of a junior branch of your House,' the Ciryatur said casually.

'That is not the point.' Gildor objected, his smooth brow creasing a little.

Not yet, perhaps, my princeling. But it may be. And as the admiral of Númenor did not overly like the High King of the Noldor, this was an entertaining thought.

***

**Gil-galad**

Although the new arrival did not come unexpected, the King felt slightly apprehensive when the visitor from Overseas was announced. This would be his first encounter with one of the Rehoused, and a hero at that. As he had never met a Power Demon face to face, not even in the War of Wrath, Gil-galad could not tell with certainty how he would acquit himself in such a battle - at least half as well as this chieftain of Gondolin had acquitted himself, he hoped.

He smiled thinly. Here he was, making calculations: if a Balrog was dangerous, how dangerous would a Balrog-slayer be? And a rehoused Balrog-slayer?

The fair stranger who approached him while he rose to greet him, did not look in any way daunting. In fact, he looked deceptively and almost disappointingly normal, except that, like Galadriel, he had the bright, piercing eyes of those who had beheld the light of the Two Trees of Valinor before they were slain. Flame-eyed, as those born in Middle-earth called it. But Glorfindel's flames burned gently; his fire was banked - though Gil-galad did not doubt that it could flare.

'Welcome, my lord Glorfindel,' he said, extending his arm. 'I am greatly honoured to receive you and make your acquaintance.'

'The honour is mine, my lord Gil-galad. It gladdens my heart to meet the successor of Turgon of Gondolin, once my lord as well as High King of the Noldor.' Glorfindel mirrored Gil-galad's gesture. His grip was firm and strong, a warrior's grip. But though outwardly they were merely two Elven lords clasping arms, Gil-galad felt the veiled power behind the other's appearance: a might beyond strength of body or mind, a power of spirit surpassing his own and maybe equal to Galadriel's.

Glorfindel let go of Gil-galad's arm. 'I apologise if I seem hasty or blunt, but there is a matter that demands your attention, my lord,' he said.

When he finished his explanation Gil-galad, more than a little alarmed, immediately acted on his newly acquired knowledge. Whether or not he was subject to the authority of the Ciryatur, this Beregar and whoever accompanied him had to be intercepted and interrogated. But after his aide had left to carry out his command, he hesitated.

The next bridge was less easy to cross. The matter of this strange ring Glorfindel had mentioned had to be addressed, but this would most likely involve inviting Tárion to consult him once more regarding his visit to Eregion and its jewel-smiths. And Gil-galad was far from certain whether Tárion was ready to face the memory of his past embodied in Glorfindel.

Postponing his decision, he turned back to Glorfindel. 'Allow me to ask - what brings an Elda rehoused in Aman back to the sorrowful shores of Middle-earth?'

With an almost imperceptible smile, Glorfindel took the bait. 'A ship, perchance? This new flesh has no more wings than the old one had - though I could certainly have used them to my advantage.' His eyes grew distant for a moment before he went on: 'I perceive that you waste little time on ceremony and formalities and press ahead like your grandfather Angrod used to do, ever since the time when we were both striplings in Aman. Before I can answer your question in full, I would request you to you invite the lady Galadriel to join us. The lord Círdan as well, I think, and any that are able to shed light on the rings made by Celebrimbor son of Curufin and his jewel-smiths.'

'Then you are a messenger? You seem well informed,' Gil-galad remarked, beginning to feel uneasy. He wondered if he could successfully command Glorfindel to inform him first, but judged it wiser to desist. 'Are the Powers aware of all that transpires in these parts of the world?'

'The Lord of the Breath of Arda harkens to the voices of the winds,' Glorfindel replied, 'and the music of streams and springs carries the news of the needs and grieves of the World to the Lord of Waters. In the Houses of the Death all that has ever been is storied in the Webs of the Weaver, and the Keeper of the Houses forgets naught.

Yet the Holy Ones do not fully understand the theme by which the Children of the One entered into the Great Song, and much that happens resides in the choices of those born from the earth since the beginning of Time. What is revealed to me shall be revealed to you. But the Valar cannot pierce the minds or break the silence of any of the Children unless by force - which they are as loath to use as their Enemies have ever been eager to. There are things that Celebrimbor will not speak of in Mandos' Halls.'

Both Glorfindel's words and the gravity with which they were uttered filled the King with a sense of foreboding. He felt that he needed time to think, to make conjectures, to speak with the others Glorfindel had mentioned - and with Tárion. 'Shall we discuss these matters tonight, after the evening meal?' he suggested.

His guest nodded and was about to reply when another voice said: 'Can I come, too?'

Distracted as he was by his own musings Gil-galad had failed to take note of the new arrival. Looking towards the door he saw another stranger approach, and he realised this had to be the companion Glorfindel had mentioned earlier. Casting a glance at the latter, he saw a flicker of amusement and anticipation cross his face. So Glorfindel was curious what would happen next.

Gil-galad gave his unannounced visitor a raised eyebrow. 'Even if I wanted additional company tonight, I should not agree to any such thing, until I knew a good deal more about you, and the reason for your presence in this place.' While he said it, he realised he had seen that face before, or one very much like it.

The newcomer turned to Glorfindel. 'Would you be so kind to introduce me?' he said, seemingly unperturbed.

With a slight frown, Glorfindel looked at Gil-galad, who inclined his head. 'This, my lord King,' he began, 'is my traveling companion Gildor, son of Inglor, son of-'

'- Ingoldo, more widely known as Finrod Felagund,' Gil-galad finished in wonderment, suddenly remembering. 'My kinsman.' So Finrod had been released from the Halls and raised a family. Why had Galadriel not told him? The likeness could hardly have escaped her.

'Indeed,' Gildor said triumphantly. They extended their arms simultaneously. Gildor's grip, the King noticed, was not just firm, but almost forceful, as if he wanted to make a point. 'I come to lend you my arm and what strength is to be found in it, in your struggle against the Abhorred One,' Finrod's grandson told him.

No 'my lord King' or anything of the kind. Usually, Gil-galad did not stand too much on ceremony. He wondered why he felt the impulse to do so now. Did he want this cousin, born of an older line, to defer to him?

He studied Gildor's oddly familiar face at length, knowing that he was being subjected to the same, careful scrutiny. I loved your grandsire, he thought, more than I loved my own. He was valiant, faithful and generous, though he was also restless and maybe a little crazy. I swore on my life's blood to avenge his cruel death in Sauron's dungeon. If you are but half the person he was, you will be fair company, Gildor Inglorion. But it remains to be seen.

'You are welcome, cousin,' he said in his formal, kingly voice.

'You mean, tonight, cousin?' Gildor asked, sounding suspiciously innocent.

Looking from him to Glorfindel, Gil-galad was certain that the ensuing silence was, in fact, filled with a rather intense exchange by way of mind-speech.

At last, Glorfindel turned to the King. 'I see no good reason to refuse him.'

'You are too kind,' Gildor said.

***

**Galadriel**

The Shipwright was older and saw further and deeper than anyone she knew; he was the only person besides her unavailable husband whose counsel weighed as heavily with Galadriel as her own. Seated on a bench in his shipyard she watched him stroke his silver beard and waited for him to speak

Slowly, he repeated her question, as if tasting its flavour: 'So, what shall we do, should our guest from Overseas put this request before us, as you think he may?' His mind seemed to fly westward as if to fathom the purposes of those behind the messenger's errand. 'Would the Powers intervene, you wonder, and if so, in what way?'

'Have they not intervened before,' she said softly but urgently.

Círdan turned back towards her, drawing her worried gaze into the vast, blue sea of his foresight and wisdom. 'They did so twice, at Cuiviénen and with the War of Wrath - too soon and too late, some say, though how they presume to judge minds that are older than Eä itself, is a source of amazement to me. But my heart warns me that they have withdrawn from these shores, leaving the decisions and deeds to us who dwell East of the Sea - even if they remain willing to offer us guidance. And we should heed them, yet in the end we must deem our own doom. But as we do not know what the message is, who sends it, and why...'

His mouth curled a little. No doubt he considered her impatient still, though she was no longer the maiden who had so eagerly gone into exile to stake out her own path and make her own mistakes. 'We can guess,' she replied. 'Do you not also think that they deplore the desire to create timeless and stainless realms this side of the Sea, keeping a rein on death and decay where they were decreed to reign supreme?' How deplorable is it? she wondered. Have the Noldor added offense to revolt by trespassing on the territory of the Powers, crafting devices to bend and stretch and still nature according to our desires? Or have we merely made by the law, in which we are made?

Galadriel realised that she was no longer looking at Círdan but at her own hands, when she heard him speak again. 'We must not fear loss. Loss is inevitable, be it now or at the end of Arda, and fear is the worst of counselors.'

She looked up with a smile, more composed than before. 'Then let us be fearless and grow wise.'

 

(TBC)


	27. Chapter Twenty-seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Glorfindel**

After refreshing himself in the room assigned to him and his traveling companion, Glorfindel made a tour of the royal palace. As he liked to reflect while walking, he had politely declined the offer of a guide.

His thoughts drifted back to the meeting with Gil-galad. Initially, he had considered rebuking Gildor, whose arrogant and somewhat disrespectful attitude towards the High King had disappointed him. In the end, though, he had refrained from doing so, hoping that nothing more lay behind it than a resurge of confidence after the unfortunate slaying of Orgol. But just in case it was pride of being born in Aman as the scion of an elder line, neither of which was due to personal merit, Glorfindel deemed it advisable to keep an eye on him. That Gildor had invited himself to the meeting with lady Galadriel and the Shipwright was mostly annoying, but Gil-galad had not seemed to mind.

The present High King of the Noldor, who had been bearing the crown longer than all his predecessors in Middle-earth taken together, had immediately aroused his curiosity. Gil-galad seemed less imperious than Fingolfin, less impetuous than Fingon and less impervious than Turgon had been. Quick to think and decide, act and command without wasting time, he would probably be an excellent army commander. Whether he was also a good tactician and diplomat remained to be seen. His questioning had been very straightforward, and Glorfindel did not think this King was someone who suffered fools gladly. Gildor would have to watch out. Not that Glorfindel minded.

His feet had carried him to a corridor adorned with wall paintings on both sides, and he halted to take a closer look at them. The choice and combination of colours, the style and the brush strokes had something familiar, and he recognised several of the places and scenes depicted. Turgon's old palace of Vinyamar, with waves crashing on the seashore. A fountain in fair Gondolin, made of shining marble, its spray sparkling in the sun, so vividly alive that Glorfindel imagined he would be able to feel the spray on his cheeks if he stepped but a little closer. A battle scene that made him turn away abruptly: the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumerable Tears - a small part of it, yet more than enough horror in black and red.

On the opposite wall he saw a ship resembling a large white lily leaving a harbour, a tall mariner on deck who looked back towards the quays. Eärendil. A couple in a birch wood in autumn: Idril and Tuor - not the youthful warrior but an elderly mortal with silver-grey hair and lines in his face, just as he was in Valinor - for though Idril's spouse had been granted the life of the Eldar he had remained as he was on his arrival in the Blessed Realm

The murals were all beautiful, painted by a master's hand; they could vie with anything Glorfindel had seen on the other side of the Sea. He also knew who had made them. Could it be that the artist was alive and here in Mithlond? In that case, he must be easy to find.

And find him Glorfindel would, for he remembered his promised to King Turgon of Gondolin in the Houses of the Dead. Judging that he had enough time left to seek the painter out before the evening meal he walked on, a new purpose to his steps.

***

**Tárion**

'I am the captain of your guard, Arto, not a council member,' Tárion told Gil-galad, 'but if you wish me to attend this meeting, I will do so.'

They were sitting on his bed, face to face, closely togehter, Tárion's legs crossing Gil-galad's thighs and encircling his hips, Gil-galad's knees pressing against Tárion' flanks. They liked to sit like this, their mouths mere inches apart, in an intimacy that could slide into love-making in a matter of moments if they wished, but did so ever more seldom as the yeni passed by and lust and passion gave way to different delights and urges.

'My wish is not a command. Do not attend if you are not ready.' Gil-galad's fingertips touched Tárion's cheek.

'If need be, I would be ready to face both the Balrog and his slayer.' When Gil-galad could not suppress a chuckle, Tárion smiled, taking his lover's hand to press it against his lips. 'There is naught to be concerned about.' Not for you, he thought. His pangs of conscience had increased since he knew Glorfindel was here - the birth pangs of a truth that wanted out like a child ready to be born. No way to avoid delivery, and little chance of postponing it.

Slowly, Gil-galad shook his head. 'Maybe your presence will not be required. Try to recall everything that Celebrimbor ever told you regarding the rings he forged with the Dark Lord's knowledge. Tell me, even if you doubt whether your memories can be trusted. There are ways to shift bare facts from embellishments, and as you know my kinswoman Galadriel is good at such things...'

Too good, Tárion was inclined to think; there had been moments when he had resented and resisted her scrutiny. Yet he also knew that at times, even too good was barely good enough, and that what made the golden Lady daunting, also made her dangerous to the Enemy. 'As I told you before, both of us were drunk, that night when Celebrimbor said more in scant hours than otherwise in a month,' he said, 'nor was there any way for me to tell if his wine held truth or merely jests and fancies. But as these are matters of the utmost importance, you shall have it all now, be it ever so unlikely and dubious.'

Gil-galad smiled. 'I suggest you begin with the most unlikely parts, after which the rest will seem all the more believable.'

'What would you say,' Tárion said slowly, 'should I claim that some of Celebrimbor's rings could convey invisibility to the wearer?'

'That he must have been very drunk to say such a thing - or that you were, if you recall him saying it.' Gil-galad snorted. 'Invisibility... now what purpose would that serve?'

Tárion sighed, clearly remembering the reason why they had imbibed as much as they had: the taint of their ancestry.

'I fear I was too far gone to ask him,' he said, 'but I am convinced that he was serious when he said it.'  
  
***

**Glorfindel**

The first person he asked, a dark-haired maid carrying a tray of food, knew at once whom he meant and described him the way to Captain Tárion's lodgings. Her directions were accurate, and before long Glorfindel was gazing at a wooden door carved with various species of birds and flowers. He hesitated, not sure what to expect if Tárion were alone in his room. Yet loath as he was to be the cause of further, or renewed, hurt and grief, he raised his hand at last and knocked.

No answer came, and once more, Glorfindel rapped on the door. For an instant he thought he heard something, yet no one responded this time either, and he felt disappointed. With a sigh, he turned to go - but then checked himself. Why not cast a brief glance inside the room to try and ascertain that he had not gone astray, and that it was indeed Tárion's?

The door was locked, but this did not pose a problem to one of the twice embodied. Looking around and seeing there were no witnesses to be disturbed or frightened by what he was about to do he let his hröa melt away until his fëa could pass through the wooden barrier.* Once he was inside, it was a matter of moments to build himself up again and take in his surroundings with the eyes of his body...

... and to realise he had committed an error. The room was not empty at all.

Tárion sat on the bed to the left of the door. He was not alone: opposite him Glorfindel saw someone he had met for the first time only hours before: Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor of Middle-earth. They were both fully dressed except for their shoes, nor were they engaged in anything that could be called love-making, yet the way they sat closely together with their legs interlaced left nothing to be guessed as to the nature of their relationship.

Glorfindel was shocked. _Tárion_ , he spoke into the mind of the King's Captain, just as the two on the bed looked his way and his incomprehensible presence registered on their stunned faces. _I believed you to possess more integrity than this - but it appears that I was mistaken._  
  
***

**Beregar**

The Grey Havens were within sight. It was late in the afternoon; they could probably reach the town gates before dark, though not before dusk. Beregar surveyed the army camp outside, wondering if it was there he would find the Ciryatur, or on his ship in the harbour, or with the High King of the Noldor. If offered lodgings in the royal palace the admiral would no doubt have accepted, being the kind of man he was. Beregar decided to count on the possibility that his commander-in-chief was in Mithlond - and maybe he should also trust in the High King's hospitality.

But there would be a few more difficulties to solve. Turning to Zaba, he said: 'We had better not use the open road. Being female you may have better ears than we poor males, but you are also much more attractive to the average Númenorean soldier loitering in an army camp with the prospect of battle ahead. As the Elvish ways of dealing with women are more courteous' - he was convinced that this was no lie - 'I believe you will be safer inside Mithlond town. So I suggest that we make a detour under cover of the bushes.'  
  
Zaba studied his face at length. He managed not to avert his eyes. At last she said to his relief: 'Strange, that you should prefer the Elven people to your own. But as I also believe that I will be safer inside their town than in that camp down there, I shall follow your lead.' She made it sound as if she was bestowing a special favour upon him, but swallowing his pride he nodded and went ahead.

By the time they reached the last copse of trees that separated them from the town gates, dusk was setting in. Time to carry out his plan. Removing his cloak, Beregar threw it about Zaba's shoulders and pulled the hood over her head, signaling for her to be silent.

'Why?' she mouthed.

'The gatekeepers may have received instructions to look out for a woman in men's clothes, to bring her to the King for interrogation,' he whispered, deliberately omitting to mention that in that case, they would certaubkt be looking for him as well. 'If you wear it, the cloak reaches to your feet and they will not be able to see that you wear breeches underneath.'

She nodded.

'Do not object against anything I will do,' Beregar went on. 'Or not before we are well past the gates.'

This time, Zaba did not nod at once. 'If it is very bad,' she whispered at last, 'rest assured that I shall pay you back in kind.'

Beregar shrugged. Throwing an arm around Zaba's shoulders and pulling her close, he stepped out of the bushes and did not halt until they were well within sight of the gatekeepers. Then he turned his face towards hers, embraced her like a man uncaring of the reputation of the woman he is with, one hand on her left breast, and kissed her deeply.

(TBC)

 

*I'm not making this up. To quote the HoMe, Volume 10, Morgoth's Ring, Commentary to the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth: "The resurrection of the body (at least as far as Elves were concerned) was in a sense incorporeal. But while it could pass physical barriers at will, it could at will oppose a barrier to matter. If you touched a resurrected body you felt it. Or if it willed it could simply elude you - disappear. Its position in space was at will."  
As this seems to have been Tolkien's final view of Elvish re-embodiment, I felt justified to use it here.

  
  
  



	28. Chapter Twenty-eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Gil-galad**

'How did you enter, lord Glorfindel?' Gil-galad demanded to know, as angered at the intrusion as he was confused by the manner of it, though he tried to remain at least coldly polite. And why did the intruder look reproachful, as if it was his right to deal out blame? It is not as if I am in the wrong, or Tárion, is it?

Glorfindel sighed. 'I... passed through the door, my lord King,' he replied, his voice coloured by genuine embarrassment. 'Such are the ways of the rehoused, though I would not have acted thus, had I known you two were here to witness it. It was never my intention to breach your privacy, and I beg your forgiveness. If you wish,' he added after a slight pause, 'I shall try to explain what I just did.'

Gil-galad's anger subsided a little. He had the impression that the other tried to distract him, though he could not begin to guess why. Deciding to take the abilities of rehoused Eldar for granted, at least for the time being, he turned his mind to the other matter and replied: 'I do not; I would prefer an explanation for the breach of privacy.'

When he looked aside, it was apparent that his lover was deeply disturbed by Glorfindel's sudden appearance. Tárion stared at the intruder, motionless, as white as his own sheets and looking even worse than the first day he had lain wounded and unconscious in the King's bed. 'So you walk the earth again, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower - but why are you here?' he asked at last in a tight, almost frightened voice.

'To bring you a message, Tárion of the King's Guard,' replied Glorfindel,after a brief pause. 'When no answer came to my knocking, I assumed that the room was empty, and as I doubted if his was the right door, I decided to enter and seek confirmation that these are indeed your lodgings. But once more, I beg your -'

'You can cut the apologies,' Tárion interrupted their visitor with uncharacteristic bluntness. 'A message? Who sent you?'

Glorfindel seemed to brace himself before he replied quietly: 'The King of Gondolin. Turgon. We met in the Halls of Mandos.'

Tárion must have been holding his breath, for Gil-galad heard it escape with a hissing sound. 'From - from Turgon? A message? I do not understand. Why does he have to send a message? Could he not wait for his release, so he could speak to me in person? Does he doubt I will sail West one day?'  
  
Glorfindel remained silent, his face pleading: Do not make me say it!

'Why, Glorfindel!' Tárion cried anxiously.

It was not a question. Glorfindel's silence spoke volumes: Turgon would not leave the Houses of the Dead until the end of Arda, either by his own volition or by Mandos' decree. Gil-galad could think of no other plausible reason why Turgon would request someone else to convey a message. But what could the shade of a dead King have to say to a surviving member of his former guard?

Tárion shuddered, hugging himself in a vain attempt to regain a measure of control. He did not ask what the message was. Perhaps he was unable to speak. Or else he knew what it would be but dreaded to hear it.

Gil-galad gripped Tárion's shoulder for reassurance. He was reluctant to leave him - and also, he had to admit to himself, curious to hear the message. At the same time he realised that his presence was likely to preclude any private revelations, even though Glorfindel was too polite and Tárion too overcome by emotion to ask him to leave. This was something between the two of them, and withdrawing would be a matter of trust. 'Shall I go?' he said, to neither of them in particular.

It was his lover who answered, a stark 'Yes,' though he added in mind-speech: I will tell you later. I promise to tell you all. His mind-voice seemed to fade, as if he was withdrawing into the realm of memory, and Gil-galad could not help wondering what terrible distance of time and space it was that made Tárion sound as remote as he did at this moment. A vague sense of dread crept upon him.

'There is indeed a reason why you should go, my lord King,' Glorfindel suddenly said, while Gil-galad slid the bolt aside that had not barred the rehoused Elda from entering. 'The ring we spoke of previously, is in Mithlond. I expect that young Beregar will soon be led before you.'  
  
***

**Beregar**

To his surprise, Zaba responded to Beregar's kiss, her mouth opening under his. Their tongues touched and snaked around each other, and before long Beregar realised he enjoyed this much more than he had expected - to the point where he felt a familiar and pleasant tightening in his groin and he knew he had to put an end to it before he was entirely carried away and lost sight of his purpose. Especially, he realised, as Zaba's right hand was sliding towards the pouch on his belt that contained the ring.

Pulling the girl's hand away he tore his lips from hers. Loud enough to be heard by any Elven ears within a hundred yards distance, and slurring a little to suggest the intake of some strong beverages he said: 'Sho let's go to my cabin on the ship, my shweet dove. Much better than a tent shared with shix others, don't you think sho?'

'Oh, yes!' Zaba's voice rang out. She leaned into him, looking hazy, as if he was caressing her in the most intimate of places, instead of roughly gripping her wrist.

Pressed closely together they reached the gate; surely no couple could look more lustful. The Elvish guards exchanged a look - though without smirking the way mortals would have done - and allowed them to pass. Beregar wondered whether they were naive, or just not used to the deviousness of mortals.

'Ah, Falmalion,' Zaba said loudly while they stepped inside Mithlond, 'you are such a sweet boy!'

How clever of her to mention his name, now that they were past the guards and he had only one way left to run - probably straight into the arms of more Elves. Nonetheless, Beregar said to himself with a surge of triumph, he had won the game, having been cunning enough not to give her his true name. 'Falmalion' would mean nothing to a couple of gatekeepers instructed to arrest one Beregar. In one swift movement, his dagger was out and poised to cut her throat, unnoticed by the Elves behind them. 'Walk on,' he murmured. 'And not a word.'

She did as he told her, for how could she know there was no way he would kill her now, after that kiss? Removing the dagger blade as soon as he judged safe, Beregar smiled, very satisfied with himself.

But if he believed that the girl would stay close as long as he had the ring she claimed as hers, he erred. Before he was aware of it, Zaba pulled herself from his grasp and darted to the left to vanish into the gloom of a narrow passage between two houses. 'Hey!' he cried. 'Stop!' But no Elves materialised to intercept her, and her footsteps faded quickly.

Blinking, Beregar stared at the spot where she had disappeared, feeling strangely empty. He still had the ring, but its secret had eluded him.

***

**Gildor**

Was it his imagination, or had he been measured against his own grandfather? He knew of the bond that had existed between Finrod and his young great-nephew Artanáro in Nargothrond, but until today he had supposed it would provide the King and himself a good base to build on: service freely chosen, and mutual support, and friendship, inspired by an example they had in common. Instead, the King's gaze had been cautious, cold like stars on a frosty night, or a chilly piece of metal. If he had to live up to an image of Finrod Felagund that Gil-galad had nurtured and cherished over the yeni, blowing it up until it topped even the summit of Mount Taniquetil itself, he was doomed to fail. But why, he wondered, should the right of measuring, weighing and judging be the prerogative of Angrod's grandson? After all, Gil-galad had merely become High King of the Noldor by default, because he was Finwë's last descendant in the male line available in Middle-earth.  
  
Surprised by his own reasoning Gildor Inglorion marched through the streets of Mithlond with the vague purpose of checking on the mortals he had left at an inn called the Northern Light. Right after his meeting with the King he had been vaguely discomfited, no more, but now that he walked alone with his thoughts his feeling of being at a disadvantage grew. He had decided not to dine at the royal table; before they met next, he would have to find a way to deal with this second cousin of his.

The streets were virtually empty; most people would be at home for the evening meal, or in the army camp outside Mithlond. It was almost dark; lamps were burning at the corners of many the houses, glowing with the light of gems wrought by Elven-craft. He would probably have found his way even in the increasing gloom, but it was by the sheen of one of the lamps that he saw the black-haired girl clearly enough to recognise her at once.

She did not seem to recognise him; most likely her mortal eyes and memory were too weak - not to mention the fact that he had one of the crystalline lamps at his back. When she halted to peer at him it was too late. In two swift steps, Gildor bridged the distance between them, and catching her by a wrist he drew her under a staircase running up along the wall of a house. His other hand had almost covered her mouth when she said in Quenya: 'Not necessary. I will not shout.'

Gildor could only hope this was true, but as he wanted to speak with the girl anyway and her command of Quenya was to her credit, he granted her the benefit of the doubt. Defying the shadows, his eyes took her in. Short - she barely reached to his chest - dark complexion, short black curls and remarkably fierce eyes, for a mortal.

'You are the girl who cut off Orgol's finger,' he said. 'Why?'

'The ring on that finger was mine, Elf-boy!' she replied with a vehemence and fury in her voice that bothered him more than the slight. Was she speaking the truth? The girl herself seemed to believe so.

'Where is it now?' he asked.

'In the belt pouch of a Númenorean sailor who calls himself the Son of Many Waves - though I do not believe it is his true name.' She tried to pull herself free, but unsuccessfully.

Gildor frowned. Falmalion? That had to be Beregar - but why had he given her a false name? In the silence following the girl's words he could hear soft footfalls somewhere in the street, but they did not draw closer. He waited for the sounds to fade before he asked: 'And where is, eh, Falmalion now?'  
  
'Somewhere in this town,' the girl said. 'Our ways have just parted.'

They ought to have been intercepted at the gates. Had the guards let them slip through? Then either Gil-galad's orders had been less than clear, or his gatekeepers were unfit for their task. A poor excuse of a leader in either case, Gildor said to himself. 'So -' he began. 'What is your name, by the way? I am Gildor, son of Inglor.'

Again that fierce look. Though she reminded him of the others mortals of Orgol's little band, her presence was decidedly stronger. 'I am Zaba.'

He did not know the tongue, but to judge by the way she uttered the name, it could very well be a invective she had chosen to be proud of. He smiled. 'Well, then, Zaba of the Uncurbed Pride, do you know what the Son of many Waves intended to do with his prize?'

Zaba snorted. She hesitated to reply to the question, though, as if she did know the answer but was trying to decide whether it was advisable to disclose it. At last she said: 'He claimed that he would take it to the Ciryatur of Númenor. But I am not sure that is what he will do.'

Securing the ring would be a great opportunity to prove his worth, Gildor realised. Not that he overestimated himself to the point of believing he could carry this off on his own. But then, he was not alone. Turning to Zaba he asked: 'If you claim Or- this ring for yourself, I assume you are willing to put your case before a counsel of Eldar?'  
'A council of elders and betters, you mean?' she said mockingly. 'What Elves are you referring to? Those in power here?'

'Yes,' Gildor replied, relishing the thought that he would be sitting among them tonight. And maybe on many occasions.

'And if I say no?' she asked.

'You do not trust us?'

'I have no reason to.'

Gildor swallowed his retort, telling himself this had nothing to do with him, a newcomer from abroad who had done... well, little harm in Middle-earth. He sighed. 'It is not as if anyone can still take it from you,' he said. 'What do you have to lose?'

***

**Celebrian**

Many a warrior chose to follow in the High King's footsteps by fighting with the weapon of his choice, and there was only one spear left in the armoury. When Celebrian raised her lamp to take inventory, the shaft cast a long shadow across the wall. But it was not a spear she came to seek, nor a sword, but a bow. And before long, she had found one. It was of a lighter kind than the great bows used by the Noldor and it suited her well. Like both her parents, Celebrían was tall but slender; strong, but not powerfully built. This bow she could string and draw with ease.

And she would. With a quiver full of arrows across her back Celebrían left the armoury to test her neglected skills; never mind that she would be late for supper.

She did not fear another encounter with obtrusive Númenoreans: no better argument to tell them off than this bow, and as she was bringing a lamp to illuminate the target, the failing of the light would not hinder her. And who would question her presence at the archery butts if she told them that she had no intention to die unresisting, should the upcoming battle end in defeat? It was true enough.

To that, some might object that she was lacking in faith, or hope, Celebrían mused. Especially the latter.

And perhaps, sadly, this was true as well.  


(TBC)  
  



	29. Chapter Twenty-nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

For Erunyauve, because of a good guess!

**Tárion**

Tearing his gaze from the door that closed behind Gil-galad's back Tárion caught Glorfindel's eyes and held them for a while. They gave away nothing, but Tárion realised this was merely a way to hide dismay.

'So, what message does the King of Gondolin send to me?' he asked finally.

'Your father begs you to forgive him,' Glorfindel replied.

_Your father._ Turgon's son cringed. 'For what?' he asked, though he knew the answer.

'Do I need to spell it out? He made you vow that you would survive the fall of the city, did he not? In the Halls of Mandos he learned how much suffering and pain it caused you to redeem that vow. He was mortified.' Glorfindel bit his lip at the appalling but probably unintentional pun.

Tárion began to unbutton his tunic. 'You know, Glorfindel after seeing my mother's corpse gnawed by _yrch_ outside the door of our home in Gondolin, and seeing my... king burn in his own Tower, and seeing my beloved teacher and captain tumble into the abyss wrapped in the Balrog's flames, I was not only ready, but eager to go. The stray coil of the demon's whip that lacerated me when I stepped too close, burned right through my skin, and a Balrog's fire will continue to sear the flesh long after it ceases to touch you. Together with the grief, it would have sufficed to kill me.' He shrugged out of the tunic and laid it aside.

'I know how terribly a Balrog's fire hurts,' Glorfindel said quietly. 'Though for me, it ceased when I shed my ruined body. You-' He fell silent. _You should not have tried to come to my aid,_ he probably wanted to say. But there was so much that should not have happened, and yet had.

'It ceased for me, too. Briefly, I was free of the pain, and never in my existence have I felt a greater relief. I could see my own body lean against a rock, knowing it would be a corpse and I would hear Mandos' summons the instant I turned away from it. But I had vowed to live, so my fëa sought back to my hröa to suffer lasting agony. It never fully healed.' Tárion pulled his shirt over his head. 'Look.'

Glorfindel stared, and stared. 'Are you still in pain?' he asked finally in an odd voice. 'But... why is there a bandage on the other side?'

'Battle wound. Nearly healed,' Tárion replied curtly. 'But yes, I still hurt, though at times I am unable to say whether it is true pain, or merely the vivid memory of suffering.' He picked up his shirt. 'Why this plea for forgiveness? And how will he know my answer, being in the Houses of the Dead?'  
  
When his head emerged from the neck of the garment he saw that Glorfindel wept. In two swift steps Tárion closed the distance between them, raising hesitant arms. Then his hands were on Glorfindel's shoulders to pull him close; and they embraced as in bygone days, when they had been friends. As they ought to become again.  
'I am sorry,' he said. 'You are not to blame for any of this. You deserve awe and praise and honour, not embittered words flying astray like badly aimed arrows. Not you.'  
  
Glorfindel blinked, though he did not wipe away his tears. 'But can you forgive him? I am convinced that he will know it if you do, though I could not tell how.'  
  
Tárion let go of him and took a step back. 'Can you forgive me?' he asked with a smile that could not but appear crooked, judging by the way his mouth felt. 'Can you forgive me for disappointing you by bedding a king?'  
  
Glorfindel took a deep breath; Tárion sensed he regretted his initial accusation and would rather wish it unthought. But they had to sort this out. Fight it out, if necessary, though he hoped it would not come to that.

At last, Glorfindel spoke. 'Did you? Or did he bed you?' he demanded to know.

'I took the first step. Arto - Gil-galad would never have done so: how could he be sure the Captain of his guard would not take his wish for a command?'

'And does he know whose son you are?'

The crucial question. Tárion turned away and strode blindly to the window, stopping just before his head hit the glass. 'As you no doubt guessed, I never told him.'

Silence. Without turning back, he went on: 'It did not seem necessary. I am a mere soldier, and nobody's son. I wanted to serve and aid him in every way I could - I still do. Let dead Balrogs be dead, I told myself. Who knew about it? Only he who fathered me, she who bore me - and you. How was I to know you would return here as a re-embodiment of the past?'  
  
Glorfindel sighed. 'Have you no intention ever to take ship to the Blessed Realm? Do you think the Powers are unaware of your parentage?'  
  
'I did not think it would matter there.'

A lame excuse, followed by a renewed silence. 'I know what you think,' Tárion went on, addressing the window and the dark blue sky outside. 'In his heart of hearts, Turgon's son yearns to be High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth. Surely he regrets he never allowed his father to acknowledge him, because naively he thought the King had to be without blemish and should not be known to have betrayed his dead wife(1). But it must have festered, and all the more so when Maeglin came and was honoured as the King's close kinsman, and became his heir in the eyes of many.

And then false Maeglin betrays Gondolin to the foe, and the city falls, and great is her fall and that of her King - and his crown goes to a boy, the son of the weakling Orodreth, and Tárion is left with nothing but grief, resentment and smouldering memories. So, what does he do, being tainted from his conception day? He seduces young Artanáro Gil-galad, who bears the crown, to bind him and be King and rule the realm in all but name. The scions of Finwë were never strangers to ambition, were they? And though he should not have been born, Tárion son of Turgon is one of them - and no less cursed than his cousin Maeglin.

Thus believes the lord Glorfindel, formerly of the House of the Golden Flower. Who among the dwellers on these shores shall gainsay him?' And listening to his own heavy breathing in the silence that followed even this outburst, Tárion at last turned back, bracing himself for the look on the face of his onetime friend.

'Are you accusing yourself?' Glorfindel asked softly, and sadly.  
  
Tárion leaned back against the window pane, feeling the chill of the glass penetrate his shirt. 'Perhaps,' he replied, just as softly, just as sadly. 'I should have told him the truth. And I shall, tonight, after the meeting, if you are willing to grant me the benefit of the doubt. And if you find that he does not know tomorrow, you can tell him.' _I will lose him anyway._

'Would that be wise? Would you not rather wait until the Enemy has been defeated?'

'And mar his victory? It would be worse rather than wiser. Gil-galad is a fighter. This will fuel his determination to fight.'

Tárion could not tell if he had convinced his old friend. Glorfindel's gaze strayed, and for the first time he seemed to notice the sketch of Gondolin on the wall. 'You drew him,' he said in amazement, gesturing at the King on the balcony, the only figure worked out in any detail. He stepped closer. 'Small as he is, I even recognise his face. You... you caught his likeness well.'  
  
'Yes...' Tárion whispered. _Despite everything, I love him._ 'But I fear I will never see him again while this world lasts.' And seeing Glorfindel's sorrowful expression, he suddenly felt his legs give way, and sank to the floor.

***

**The Ciryatur**

'Are you certain you do not want me to accompany you back to the palace, my lord?' the aide asked once more.

'You think I will be assailed by the Elves?' the Ciryatur said; the youth was really becoming obnoxious. 'They have their flaws, but do you seriously think they will lift one finger against the leader of their rescuers? The saviours of Middle-earth. Find that ancient map you mislaid and bring it to my suite in the palace. Report back to me after supper.'  
  
'Yes, my lord admiral.' The aide bowed stiffly, looking as if he thought it was his lord admiral who had mislaid the map.

The Ciryatur left his ship with the box containing Tar Minastir's gift to the Elvenking in his hand. I am getting old, he thought. Ten years ago I would have presented it to him during my first dinner in the palace. But it is mostly his own fault, for unnerving me like he does. Not to mention the Lady.

She had been prying into his mind. He had tried to veil it by thinking of practical and concrete matters: marching orders, battle plans, ships cleaving the waves; and Númenor, its grandeur and power, its great endeavours, its cities, palaces and tombs. He had tried not to think about himself. Yet he doubted he had remained wholly invisible in the forest of thoughts and images growing in his mind, and he was vexed.

Frowning, he strode along the quayside, his steps guided by those magical lamps that spread light without visible fire. The Elves denied that it was magic, but if they could not explain its workings, it quite simply was. Suddenly he saw yet another lamp straight ahead, moving away from the palace. A woman carried it - no, a maiden with long, silver hair that radiated a light of its own, a star shining into his gloom, a vision of imperishable beauty to brighten a brief mortal life lived between two nights of non-existence. His breath caught in his throat, and a thought crossed his mind: I want to die now, or never.

_Old fool!_ Yet he found himself increasing his pace, straying from his course - and yes, it was the golden Lady's daughter, Celebrían, bow and quiver slung across her back. Target practice, and by night? But clearly even her Elven eyes needed more light than her precious stars could given. Except that, while gazed at her, the light disappeared and he found himself staring into shadows, seeking her in vain. Had she extinguished it, hoping to avoid him? In that case, she had succeeded well, and he had no choice but to continue to the palace.

Well, it was suppertime anyway, and he couldn't live on elusive visions.

And there was that fellow Gildor again, also approaching the gates, and, surprisingly, flanked by a female. The Ciryatur had assumed that Gildor favoured males - and this girl was not even of his own fair race. With her coal-black curls and her sallow skin she had to be one of those savages from Dunland, except that she stood slightly taller. Númenorean blood, probably. The Dúnedain did sow their wild oats in Middle-earth.

When Gildor wished him good evening the Ciryatur returned the greeting, adding an 'enjoy yourself'.

The girl cast him an unpleasant glance. 'Who is he?' she demanded to know, turning to the Elf.

'The admiral of the Númenorean fleet.'

'Another of those accursed treecutters!'

The Ciryatur's jaw clenched. He had never in his life wielded an axe in Middle-earth! But no, she was too far below him to be able to insult him. He would have stared her down if she had not stalked off, pulling a nonplussed Gildor along.

'What ails you, Zaba?' he heard the Elf ask.

Zaba? Definitely a Númenorean connection. Maybe the girl's begetter had played a malicious trick on the mother, the admiral thought, smiling thinly to himself.

'What ails me? More than I could tell you between here and the place where we are headed,' he heard Zaba reply to Gildor's question. 'Though I can tell you that he keeps me for a whore, and you for a whore-monger.'

'A what?'

The girl's reply was to soft to catch. The Ciryatur shrugged. That conclusion was hers, not his, and he had offended no one with his cheerful greeting. Seeing the two disappear inside the palace, he followed them at a more sedate pace.  
  
***

**Galadriel**

When she encountered Gil-galad on her way to the dining hall, he was so absent-minded that he forgot to return her greeting. She wondered if it had something to do with the coming of Glorfindel and the coming meeting to which the Shipwright and she had been invited. When he did not open his mind to her she asked where their guest from overseas was; would he not attend supper on his first evening in Mithlond?

'He was probably delayed,' the King replied, sounding troubled. Galadriel stronlgy suspected that Gil-galad's troubles were the source of his preoccupation, but it was apparent that he did not wish to speak of it.  
  
They were still on their way to the dining hall when they heard rapidly approaching footsteps and a voice crying: 'My lord King!' Turning, they saw an elf in the royal livery doing his best to keep ahead of two strange, poorly dressed but purposeful looking mortals. 'Be careful, my lord,' he warned, about halfway down the corridor. 'I could not prevent them from entering this part of the palace without taking recourse to violence. And they do not seem to speak any known language.'

Gil-galad's mind must have reasserted its presence, for raising his eyebrows he said: 'Oh? If they use it, I am reasonably certain that they know it.' Then he relented. 'Though this may not be of much help to us.'

Despite his calm voice, his hand crept towards his dagger. The mortals, who carried no visible weapons, halted abruptly, recoiling at the gesture.

It pained Galadriel to see the fear in their eyes. There was anger too, bordering on hatred but still one step short of it, as if they hoped they would be spared the necessity to hate. She did not wish to be hated by free people, and these two were free. Still. _They do not seem a threat to me, my lord._

His hand dropped. _How do we solve this problem, my lady?_

Her brother used to be good at matching thoughts and words in languages unknown to him, better than she was, although she read desires and emotions more easily. Perhaps Finrod's grandson could -

As if her mere thought had been enough to summon him, Gildor Inglorion appeared at the far end of the corridor - with another woman, younger, and a little different in face and colouring. As soon as they set eyes on them the other two mortals cried out, and the man began to speak rapidly in his own tongue. The newly arrived girl interrupted him, seeming to ask a question, and receiving an answer from the woman.

'Cousin.' The King turned to Gildor. 'Glorfindel tells me that you acquired some knowledge of this language since you arrived in Middle-earth. What do they say?'

His cousin listened. 'I think they want to lodge a complaint against Númenor,' he said after a while. 'And against the Elvenking as well, it seems.'

Now why did that please him? Galadriel wondered.

'Do they, now?' came the cold voice of the Ciryatur, who came striding towards the company in that very moment.

Galadriel could easily catch Gil-galad's thought, and it would not surprise her if all the Elves in the palace caught it, too, so intense was it. _No! Not now!_

 

(TBC)

(1)I have to confess this is fanon. It was Chapter 2 of Finch's Fingon/Maedhros series Under the Curse, Brother and Lover, that inspired me to attribute a son to Turgon. As will become clear in a later chapter, I did change a few background details.

 

Further note To my regret, I have to tell you I may not be able to update as often during the next few months as I've been doing until now. I'll try to post a new chapter twice a month, though. The story will be told by Chapter 40, or at least, that's my intention...

 

 


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Beregar**

Though he did seek Zaba for a while it was with little hope of finding her, and by the time it was fully dark Beregar gave up. He felt strangely indecisive. He knew he ought to report back to the Ciryatur and hand him the ring, but he was loath to part with it. On the other hand, what if Zaba went to the Elves with her tale, convinced as she was of the validity of her claim? In that case, they would surely try to take it from him, perhaps by force. They would not dare to take it from the Ciryatur, and was entrusting it to a fellow Man not arguably better than to let the Elves gain possession of it? If it was true what Zaba had told him this ring was designed - no, destined - to be worn on a mortal finger.

Though not necessarily the Ciryatur's. Why would he, Beregar, be less worthy? What if he went to find this Annatar lord of Gifts? If he put the ring on, would its Giver not be aware of it and summon him, as he had summoned Orgol? Giving rings was a sign of magnanimity; did this not speak to Annatar's advantage? And undoubtedly, this lord would be able to reveal the ring's secret to him.

Choose, Beregar, he said to himself. Choose your path.

But as it was too difficult to think straight on an empty stomach he let his feet carry him to the brightly-lit harbour where the Númenorean fleet kay docked. There, he went aboard the vessel he had left less than a week ago, though it seemed like months. No one was guarding the ship, as if there was nothing to steal - or none to do it. Were Elves supposed not to steal? Beregar wondered, feeling vaguely amused. He thought of the famous story of the Elvenking who sent a mortal on a thief's errand, long ago in the dark past. Though if he recalled correctly, it had been a morally ambiguous case...  
  
The galley was empty, but he managed to find some bread and dried fruit, and a flask of ale. His hunger stilled and his thirst slaked, Beregar went on deck again; already, his course seemed clearer. The tall vessel rose high above the quayside and his gaze was drawn eastward across Mithlond, to the wide lands beyond that lay brooding under a clouded, starless sky.

He jumped when a voice behind him exclaimed: 'Beregar! You are back!'

Wheeling, Beregar saw that it was the Ciryatur's aide, holding a folded parchment. He suppressed a curse. 'Does that surprise you? Was I declared dead?' he asked, too sharply. 'I am not a rehoused Elf, in case you wondered.'

'Eh, no - sir,' the aide replied, blinking. 'It is merely that did not expect to see you here. If you are looking for the Ciryatur, he went to the palace, shortly ago.' He hesitated. 'I suppose you do not have the time to tell me of your adventures?'

'Not now,' Beregar said; his feet began to itch. 'I am sorry.'

The aide held out the parchment to him. 'Well, then.... If you would be so kind to hand him this, sir? He asked for it, but I have some more tasks to carry out here.'

Nodding, Beregar took the parchment and left the ship. Down on the quay he folded it out, to discover that his hands held a map of Lindon and the lands east and south of it, as far as the river Greyflood. Could this truly be chance?

***

**Glorfindel**

Staring at the carved door of the room he had just left, Glorfindel wondered if he could have acted differently. As often, the answer seemed to be both yes and no. Yes, because he had overstepped the bounds of his messenger role. No, because Gil-galad had a right to learn the truth. Glorfindel would never demand that Tárion reveal it, nor would he betray him, were he to remain silent. But he had known beforehand which path his old friend would be likely to choose, and also that Tárion would abide by his choice, whatever the danger and at whatever cost, for better or for worse.  
  
So be it - yet Glorfindel's heart bled for Turgon's son. Tárion had suffered horribly because of his vow to survive the fall of the city. Turgon had been wrong to exact it from him, confusing a king's power of a king with a father's love: he had been fey indeed, in that fateful hour. Much of Tárions silence had to be rooted in his reluctance to speak of Turgon at all: for him, too, it was both yes and no. Yes, I love the father who did not want me to die. No, I hate the king who compelled me to live.

I shall be there when he needs me, Glorfindel promised himself.

And Gil-galad? He was ready to be there for him as well. But the King was not an old friend and might not want to become a new one, once he heard who had dug into the past to uproot the present.

Whatever was to be gained by his return, Glorfindel thought, something was doomed to be lost as well, and by being who he was and knowing what he knew he was enmeshed in this doom. The world was marred from the beginning and joy and grief alike would nurture any who took their nourishment from it. How could it be that he had remembered that life could be painful, but had forgotten how the pain felt? And now that he did remember, what could he do but help others to take heart, and look up? And in that hour, Glorfindel wondered if the role had had to play this side of the Sea was not more than that of a messenger.

Pensively, he crossed the outer palace yard. A shadow flitted across his field of vision, speeding towards a dimly lit archway. The shadow was topped with a silver sheen and looked like a huntress carrying a bow and arrows. Glorfindel had met this huntress before, at a time when she had been the prey. He wondered what it was she hunted. It was the first time he saw Celebrían since she and her mother rode away to return to Mithlond, not long before the attack on Orgol's camp. Perhaps he should speak to her, to ask her if all was well.  
  
***

**Gil-galad**

A faint, rumbling sound caught the King's ear, and he was fairly certain it came from the girl who had entered with Gildor. 'I would suggest that we do not remain standing here,' he said with an inviting gesture. 'Some of us are hungry and look forward to a meal. It seems to me that the dining hall would be the obvious place to use it.' The girl seemed surprised at his hospitality, but her eyes lit up eagerly, confirming his suspicions.

The Ciryatur frowned. 'My lord King,' he said, 'I fear this cannot be dealt with while sharing pleasantries and enjoying the delicacies of your table, however much I was, indeed, looking forward to them.'

'My lord admiral,' replied Gil-galad, equally politely. 'It is not my intention to do much about this at all, at the moment. Our armies will march in three days. Should we be defeated, then neither you nor I may survive to deal with any complaints these people wish to lodge against us. If we are victorious, we may find ourselves better disposed towards the plaintiffs.' And both of us may need a better disposition.

The Ciryatur smiled thinly, and Gil-galad knew what he was thinking: that to this case, delay could be fatal. The man erred, but there was no need to point it out.

While they proceeded towards the dining hall, he turned to Gildor. 'Will you tell these people that they may put their case before me during supper, but that we cannot hold court before the upcoming battle has been fought?'

'Perhaps it is a matter that can be easily resolved?' Gildor offered.

'Possibly,' Gil-galad said. 'But there is the matter of appointing an independent judge. I cannot very well sit in judgment while I stand accused, can I?'

'True,' Gildor conceded. 'The physical difficulties alone would be insurmountable.'

Gil-galad bit his lip. This was something he could have said.

'Maybe the lady Galadriel could judge,' Gildor went on.

'The lady Galadriel is kin,' Gil-galad objected, mostly to curb the ambition he sensed in his cousin, as the lady would refuse anyway. If Gildor would argue against everything he said, maybe he would truss him up and send him to Tol Eressëa with the next shipment. Was he deluding himself now, or did Gildor's crest indeed fall a little?

'I shall translate your words for you,' the hungry girl suddenly spoke up in excellent Quenya.

'Pray do so, my lady,' the King said, intrigued, and relieved that he would not have to depend on Gildor.

On reaching the dining hall, he invited the strangers to sit across him at his table. That Ciryatur did not object had to be due to the fact that he, too, was curious to hear more about this complaint. Gil-galad decided not to address the matter right away, but when the girl - whose name turned out to be Zaba - had stilled the worst of her hunger, he turned to her and said: 'Now tell us, what is this complaint against the Númenoreans and the... Elvenking?'

Gildor sat up expectantly; Galadriel seemed to reemerge from the depths of memory. The admiral looked disdainful, as if he expected the girl to lie. Gil-galad did not: the anger he sensed in her was honest.

Zaba put down her spoon, eyeing him gravely with a pair of piercing eyes. 'The men from Númenor destroy our land,' she said, gesturing at the two other mortals to include them in her complaint. They seemed to trust in her capacity to speak for them as well, though they did not understand a word. 'They cut down our trees to build their ships and houses. They kill our animals. And what they do not need for themselves they trample underfoot. We live of the forests, hunting and gathering food - but each year the woods decrease, because of the likes of him.'

She stabbed an accusing finger at the Ciryatur and raised her voice. 'Seldom do we cut down a living tree, or shoot a breeding doe or a fawn. Why do they come to these shores when they have a whole island of their own? But they do come, and they rape our land, as they rape us - do they have no women on their island to satisfy their lusts? And while we do not accuse the Elves of doing any such things, they do not prevent it either.'

Elsewhere in the hall, both the Elves of Lindon and the Númenoreans of the Ciryatur's retinue were aware that something unpleasant was going on at the King's table. Unrest awoke, low-pitched still, but ready to rise. The King leaned back in his chair, briefly closing his eyes. If she spoke truly - and in his heart he knew that part of it was true - the guilt lay at his door as well. He had allowed the Númenoreans to cut wood in Endor, be it not on the scale implied by Zaba. His friend Tar Aldarion, long dead now, had made the first request, but it had not ended there. It had been the price for Númenor's support against the slowly lengthening shadow in the East.

He turned to the Ciryatur, who needed no further encouragement to speak. Shrugging, and still looking disdainful, the admiral said: 'For all I know it is the Dark Lord who destroys their woods and allows his servants to rape at will. Did you not write in your letter to Tar Minastir that he had overrun all Eriador save Lindon alone, my lord? These people must have mistaken his minions for our mariners; would the true men of Westernesse take women by force, shoot breeding animals or trample on herbs and flowers? Never. As for myself - I never laid a single ax to a single tree in my entire life!'

No doubt you have your foresters to do it for you, thought Gil-galad, who had felled a number of trees himself to build this very palace, yeni ago. He turned back to Zaba, ignoring the voice in his mind that warned him not to pursue this matter any further. 'How can you be sure that all these deeds were done by the people of Númenor, and not by servants of the Dark Lord?'

'I do not speak of the last few years alone,' she said dismissively. 'This has been going on for much longer: the old ones of our people remember their old ones lamenting it. And this Dark Lord has passed us by, marching against the Elven realms. We heard of his quarrels with the Elves, but what are they to us? And what are you to us? Surely no more than we are to you, creatures almost as short-lived as animals, no more than ripples in the sea of your time.'

'And yet,' Gil-galad said, 'you come to us to lodge your complaints.'

'Maybe that was folly, then,' she said, her eyes growing hard. She turned to the admiral again. 'But you are mortal, too. Why do you side with the immortals? Because they allow you to have your way with our forests and steal our trees?'

Trying to drive a wedge between them, was she? Gil-galad wished he could afford to admire her wholeheartedly for her cleverness.

'Your forests?' the Ciryatur said. 'Your trees? Did you make them, or the animals that roam through them?'

'No!' Zaba cried. 'If they are ours, it is because we care about them. Do you care about the trees?' She sought Gil-galad's eyes. 'Do you care about the forests, Elven King, or does your people only care about things that gleam and glitter?' Her hand made a seeping gesture around the hall, where many a jewel shone at the throat, wrist or brow of many an Elda.

The tension in the hall rose. Several Númenoreans leaped up from their seats and not a few Elves looked dismayed or angry. Most of these were Noldor - Elves of rocks and metals, of buildings and crafts, makers rather than tenders and keepers.

The other mortals, who did not follow what was being said, began to look worried.

'We care about the forests,' Galadriel spoke up suddenly. Catching and holding Zaba's gaze she went on: 'We care for them because of what they are, not only because of what they can give us. I have seen acorns grow into tall oaks and being felled by other things than axe-blades, and I have mourned them. I have seen many generations of animals being born, grow, beget young, and die of old age, not by arrows and spears, and I have mourned them. I have seen green lands being destroyed and swallowed by waves, and I have mourned them. I have grieved for all that your old ones, and their old ones, and their old ones before them have ever grieved for, knowing that death would not release me from the sorrows of this marred world. And I am merely the oldest of many here. We would have to be dust and ashes to remain unaffected. As we may yet be when our regrets have consumed us.'

Zaba attempted to withstand the Lady's gaze. She held out long, but in the end she had to look away. Yet, with her eyes cast down and her voice subdued, she still clung to a last shred of defiance. 'Surely it must be difficult not to err, when one has so much life to do it in. '

Truths, Gil-galad thought, tend to have two sides. That is why it is so painfully difficult to speak unequivocally, and to make the right choices . 'Yes,' he said, before Galadriel could reply. 'We do. I do. Sometimes, the Elves envy those who can die away from their tainted decisions and the ensuing regrets, Zaba.' He rose. 'I acknowledge your right to complain. Your accusations cannot be dismissed. Neither can they be dealt with at the moment. But until we return from the battle against the Dark Lord' - I will not say: if we return - 'you are welcome to remain here as our guests.'

'My lord King, said a loud voice from the entrance to the hall, 'apparently he shorter-lived also have enough time to err. These people belonged to the group that captured the lady Celebrían and me and held us prisoner for a while.'

Everyone gazed at the speaker, who was standing in the doorway of the dining hall. It was Glorfindel.

The Ciryatur rose abruptly, upsetting his chair. 'These savages laid hands on the lady Celebrían?' he cried. 'But that is outrageous! Without wanting to usurp the King's authority' - a brief pause, but he did not look at Gil-galad - 'should these people not be confined, instead of being treated like guests?'

'Shall I lodge a complaint, then?' Celebrían asked, joining Glorfindel.  
  
(TBC)  
  
  
  


 


	31. Chapter Thirty-one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Gildor**

Gildor sighed. Until the arrival of Glorfindel and Celebrían all had seemed to go well. Returning to the palace with Zaba he had deliberatly broached the subject of the men of Númenor ravaging Eriador with the High King's approval. She had promptly agreed that it must be addressed. That the two other mortals arrived separately, yet with the same complaint, had only served to affirm her credibility. Gil-galad appeared to be duly disturbed, though Gildor had to concede that his royal cousin bore himself with dignity. Postponing the matter until after the battle was a clever move - a victorious leader would have an edge on any who would accuse him - but inevitable, and it would not affect the gravity of the complaint.

What had not occurred to him was the possibility that Celebrían would resent her captivity enough to hold it against Orgol's followers even after Orgol's death. And why Glorfindel would do so was beyond him - had he not released their captives, allowing them to return home if they wished? That he was humouring Galadriel's daughter was hard to imagine.

Watching them approach, Gildor realised he did not know what effect their arrival would have or what they would decide, and a feeling of inadequacy assailed him. He was still young, a newcomer hardly weathered by any storm of events this side of the Sea. What did he know, what could he show that outweighed the heavy years of experience anchoring his elders to this ground, these lands of Middle-earth?

Gildor decided to ignore the feeling. _I can handle this._ The Ciryatur's reaction had been predictable enough; he would seize on anything that would put the accusers of his beloved island in a bad light. Nor did the confusion of Zaba's companions come as a real susprise, and when she informed them wat was going on it changed to dismay. They must have counted on Glorfindel's clemency. Zaba merely looked grim. She will not turn tail now, he thought, smiling at her. She seemed not to notice.

'Will you lodge a complaint, my lady Celebrían?' he heard Gil-galad ask.

'I have not made a decision yet, my lord,' she replied, avoiding her mother's eyes.

'Do not wait too long,' the King advised her. 'Unless you accuse them I cannot keep these people' - he indicated Zaba and her friends - 'here against their will. Should they wish to depart,' he added suggestively.

Zaba translated the exchange. Hearing the woman confirm that yes, she preferred to leave, Gildor suppressed a sigh. Do not underestimate Gil-galad. The face of the Ciryatur, who naturally would be relieved to see the last of the plaintiffs, betrayed a grudging respect for the King. The lady Galadriel nodded pensively.

Glorfindel, on the other hand, sought Gildor's gaze, as if he suspected something. Strange, for he could not know who had led Zaba to the palace, nor could he pry freely into Gildor's mind, despite his considerable powers. Raising his eyebrows, Gildor stared back, only to discover that it was unpleasant to be studied so intensely by someone who had passed through the Houses of the Dead, where lies and deception withered in the presence of Mandos. It was all he could do not to look away.

At that moment Zaba spoke. 'My friends wish to leave,' she announced, while they rose. 'I shall stay. I vow that I will not leave, regardless of what the lady here decides to do.' If anything, she sounded even more defiant than before, as if she considered herself innocent and trusted that she could prove it.

'Very well,' Gil-galad replied. 'Shall we finish supper, then?' He inclined his head politely towards Zaba's two companions, whose departure from the dining hall nevertheless resembled a flight more than anything.

If Zaba decided to stay, Gildor mused, it had to be because she wanted the ring back more than anything. Her chances of recovering it were slim if either Glorfindel or he would reveal that she had cut it from Orgol's hand with finger and all. How badly she must want it, if she stayed all the same.

Suddenly, he wondered where Beregar was.

***

**Tárion**

As he lay on his bed, feeling drained, Tárion knew that he could afford to miss supper. Yet he felt obliged to attend tonight's meeting to discuss the rings forged by an Elvish craftsman and a crafty Maia. The enemy.

The enemy without. There was an enemy within as well, one he had not been courageous enough to face until Glorfindel made the confrontation inevitable.

_Why did I never tell Arto? What did I fear - that he would doubt the sincerity of my love, asking himself if it could ever be wholly free of ambition? That he would be unable to banish suspicion entirely from all the nooks and crannies of his mind if he knew who sired me? That I would lose him before he could wholly belong to me?_

'Are you the enemy?' Tárion asked aloud. 'My desire to posses? My wish to keep what I considered mine?' Possesiveness, of old the temptation of the Noldor. His father's error: Turgon had loved the creation of his heart to a fault, sacrificing thousands for his city without being able to save her. Tárion winced. He was the offspring of an accursed Noldorin exile who had betrayed his people, the children of Ilúvatar, for a thing of his own making. Folly to think he was free of that taint.

But Arto wasn't his; he had not created Arto.

Yet he had made part of what was Gil-galad, the King, serving and counseling him long before they became lovers, ever since their first meeting before the end of the First Age. Tárion still remembered the day when a group of survivors from fallen Gondolin had come to Círdan's dwellings on the coast of Arvernien to announce Turgon's death and offer their services to young Artanáro of the House of Finarfin, the new High King of the Noldor. When they knelt before him Arto had balked, shouting: 'I never asked for a crown. What little is left of our realms in exile can easily do without me!' He had been about to walk out on them all when one of the Gondolindrim grew wrathful, rose to his feet and grabbed the unwilling youth by his wrist, saying: 'Who else is there? Should another take the crown? Shall I put it on my head, and shoulder the responsibility for what is left to defend, as long as we still have hope? Am I born to it - or are you?'

Despite the situation some had thought it a good jest, and chuckled. But Artanáro's eyes had met those of his challenger, and something had kindled in them. He had pulled his arm free, asking: 'What is your name, and what was your position, back in Gondolin, friend?'

'My name is Tárion, and I was a member of the King's Guard.' Tárion had dropped to his knees again, trembling with emotion, exertion and burning pain, the flames of Gondolin still searing his body and mind.

The young king had stared at him for a while. 'Very well then,' he had said at last. 'Arise. Gather me a King's Guard of my own and captain it for me.' Suddenly a smile broke through on his face and he had resembled a sun, with that cloud of gold radiating from his head - but his eyes were stars. Tárion knew that this had been the moment when he fell in love with him, though he had only realised it later.

After that, there had been many occasions on which Gil-galad turned to him for counsel - and to be gainsaid. Consummating their love had only been the confirmation of an existing bond. Had there ever been a right moment to tell his lover the truth? Or was he deluding himself now?

Do not do this to yourself. Tárion sat up awkwardly, his muscles aching; He wondered if this was how aging mortals felt. The last thing he wanted was to attend this meeting, but it would be cowardly to stay away. So he began to braid his hair, singing a sad song his mother had taught him - she who had loved in vain and lived on a single night shared with her beloved one, though all he had shared was the grief of a husband whose wife was in the Houses of the Dead, and who took her with his eyes shut. The song summoned her to his room, a living image smiling a loving smile to chase away his memories of her gnawed corpse in the street. When his voice faltered he wiped his face and put his boots on.

His eye fell on the drawing of Gondolin. He gazed at it for a moment, picked up a piece of charcoal and sketched a female figure at the base of the tower, gazing up at the balcony with love and hopeless longing. Then he put down his charcoal and left for the King's council chamber, not bothering to don a cloak.

He had to cross the outer court to reach the palace building. Stepping outside he noticed that the wind had freshened. The air was very moist, as if it could rain any moment. Unaffected by the chill he paused in the midst of the empty yard to gaze up at the sky, but clouds obscured the stars.

Something caught his attention, a movement, glimpsed from the corner of an eye. There it was again: a shadowy figure slipping away down the flight of steps leading to the wine-cellars, in the corner of the yard. But the outer door to the cellars would be locked now, and Tárion decided to investigate.

At the top of the stairs he paused, his keen gaze piercing the darkness. A young fellow, a mortal to judge by his eyes, crouched before the cellar door peering up uncertainly.

'Who are you?' The captain of Gil-galad's guard raised both hands with the palms turned outward to show he had no blade - and to be prepared in case the other would throw one. 'Shall I call the guards?' he went on when no reply came.

'No.' The voice was strangled, as if the young man was sorely troubled, too.

'Then I repeat: who are you?' Tárion took one step down.

The other rose. He looked to be a Númenorean, as tall as Tárion. 'My name is Falmalion,' he replied, his tone more normal now, though still tense.

'So, what are you doing down there, Falmalion?' Tárion watched the man intently.

'Who is asking?'

'The captain of the High King's Guard.'

A pause. 'I lost my way,' the young man replied at last. 'Please, take me to the king. I have something important to show him.'

Lost his way? 'Very well,' Tárion said, after a brief hesitation. 'But first, disarm.'

***

**Glorfindel**

He had no wish to see Orgol's former followers punished. But watching and listening, and finding the girl's tone too belligerent, he had decided to intervene: maybe she would realise that truth had two sides, and relent a little. Alas, the Ciryatur had tipped the precarious balance he had tried to create, and Celebrían seemed to have given in to resentment. Was he so out of touch with the reality of Middle-earth that it led to errors of judgment? Olórin should have gone in his stead.

But no, Glorfindel rebuked himself: you deemed yourself fit to go. This was unworthy of him. Moreover, he sensed that there were undercurrents here of which he had not known, strong enough to sweep away his best intentions. Also, he would like to know what Gildor's role was in all this, but that could wait.

He seated himself beside Galadriel, and turning to her he asked: 'What else troubles your daughter, besides her experience in the foothills of the Ered Luin, lady Artanis?'

The lady raised an eyebrow, perhaps at the use of her old father-name. 'You spoke to her more recently than I did, Glorfindel.'

He eyed her gravely. 'Are her other concerns of such a nature that she would confide in me, little more than a stranger? Confidence seems hard to come by, in these lands.'

'And these days,' Galadriel confirmed. 'But what burdens my child is not for me to reveal, as it is of a very private nature. But you see sharply and truly.'

As did she, though Glorfindel noticed she made no attempt to fathom his mind. No doubt she knew too well that he could resist her, and foresaw that he would.

And whatever Celebrían's troubles were, in the end they did not prevent her from showing some clemency towards the girl Zaba. Instead of lodging a complaint she suddenly said, while the last dishes were cleared away: 'I would speak with you, Zaba. Do you trust me enough to follow me?'

'Do you trust me enough to take me along?' Zaba countered, ever on edge.

Celebrían smiled faintly, and for a moment she was her mother's image, but for her hair. 'Let us take care of each other, then' she suggested.

The Ciryatur looked annoyed when they left together. He departed soon after, claiming he needed to rest. To recover from the shock of having been accused by the likes of Zaba, probably.

After supper, Gil-galad, Galadriel, Gildor and Glorfinfdel repaired to the council chamber, where Círdan waited for them at the oblong table. As he guessed from their faces that something had happened, the King proceeded to give an account. Though Gil-galad was plainly disturbed by the affair, it was remarkably efficient. Perhaps he was cut from such cloth as sailed well against the wind - or the Shipwright had taught him to be succinct.

Meanwhile, Glorfindel was disturbed, too. Temporarily distracted by the events, now he became increasingly become aware of a foul presence, not far away. It was creeping closer and closer to the council chamber, and after the first, vague forebodings he was able to give it a name, too: Orgol's ring.

He knew that it was upon them when the door opened and Tárion stepped in. He was not alone, and the identity of the second person, the one who radiated the danger, came as a shock .

'Beregar?' Gildor cried incredulously. 'I thought -'

'Beregar?' Tárion interrupted him sharply. 'He said his name was Falmalion.' He turned to the young Númenorean. 'Why did you give me a false name?'

Beregar moved forward past Tárion. Gildor took a step towards him.

In that moment, Glorfindel saw that the young man was wearing Orgol's ring. Though he sat on the wrong side of the table, between Círdan and Galadriel, he leapt up, shouting. 'Ware-'

Another voice drowned him out. 'Death to the Elvenking!' cried the young man. Like a snake his hand shot towards the dagger at Gildor's hip, pulling it - and throwing himself at the King with the blade in his raised hand.

But it was not Gil-galad who fell to the floor.

 

(TBC)


	32. Chapter Thirty-two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Celebrían**

Zaba studied Celebrían none too kindly. Did she take the question as an insult? She was touchy enough, and Galadriel's daughter did not need her mother's depth of insight to see the resentment in this girl. But suddenly Zaba did speak. 'No, I was not raped by a Númenorean. Why would you want to know? Why bother?'

'It would explain the... intensity of your feelings,' Celebrían replied, feeling a little embarrassed. 'And I thought that if such a thing had happened, maybe you would want to talk about it.'

'First you accuse me, and now you would offer me a sympathetic ear?' the girl asked, her face clearly betraying her disbelief.

I accused you because you accused Gil-galad. But all Celebrían said was: 'I changed my mind. You were a member of Orgol's company, but you did not harm me, or lay hands on me. I will not hold his deeds against you.'  
  
Zaba's hard eyes seemed to soften a little. 'Then let me say that I do not hate the Elves. Nor do I hate every Numenórean. My own father was one, and he chose to spend part of his life among our people. "I will stay till your mother's death," as he used to say to my sister and me. "My life-span is three times hers, and afterwards we will sail home." But he never had the chance to take us to his island.' She blinked.  
  
With her eyes Celebrían encouraged her to speak on, and after a brief silence she continued: 'Still, even if Orgol had not murdered him he would not have returned, I fear. His fellow Númenoreans condemned him for siring two daughters on a short-lived "savage" and living among the people of the darkness, as they called us in their arrogance, without truly knowing us. Those were the wood thieves, the people who chased us before them, the people who shot the doe and her fawn. This is the kind of Númenorean that I hate. And my father had begun to hate them too, I believe, or he would not have turned away from the king of his island and entered the service of another lord. But I do not expect you to understand such things, my lady,' she finished condescendingly.

_You will be surprised_. 'Not? Many of my mother's kinsfolk named my father a Dark Elf, and a rustic oaf, looking down on him and the others of his people. Nonetheless she wed him.' And I resent all those among the Noldorin exiles who still think like that, though some of them have never even seen the Light of the Trees.

It was obvious that Zaba did not know what to say. Well, let her be tongue-tied for once. The girl was hardly more than a child, yet she presumed to fire the arrows of her wrath at a great and wise King who had worn his crown longer than all the rulers of Númenor together had worn theirs.

_And who is not entirely blameless, meddling too little in the affairs of Men_ , spoke a voice in a remote corner of Celebrían's mind, a voice she would rather ignore, and not because it resembled her mother's. But it could not be ignored. Zaba was partly right, as that same King had admitted in all honesty. 'Sit down,' she said, indicating a chair by the fireplace and seating herself in the other one. 'And tell me again, what was it you said about your father being murdered, and having entered the service of another lord?'

Zaba's fingers grasping the armrests turned white. 'It is painful for me to tell. But it would explain why I followed Orgol... though I hated him probably more than you did.'

Again, she sounded condescending; if Celebrían had not realised that Zaba was treating her as she would treat a mortal maid of her own age, she would have been annoyed. But if the girl had little direct experience with Elves, it had probably not occurred to her that the youthful looking female she was speaking with could very well be much older than she was.

'I was partly responsible for my own predicament, and I did not hate Orgol even while he was alive,' Galadriel's daughter said. 'As it is, I pity him, entrapped as he was by our foe, and losing so much of what little life was allotted to him.'

Zaba frowned, suddenly tense again. 'Orgol, entrapped by your foe? I do not understand.'

'Tell me your story,' Celebrían said, 'and I will explain.'

***

**Galadriel**

It went all very fast. The instant after Beregar drew Gildor's dagger, the Captain's leg shot out. His foot hooked around the Númenorean's ankle, toppling him before he could reach the King. But in that same instant, Gildor Inglorion moved. With cat-like agility he leapt between the assailant and his target, and when his body encountered the dagger the blade buried itself to the hilt into his flank. The Man's weight dragged the Elf down and both crashed to the floor, Gildor on top of Beregar. Tárion crouched, and there was a brief flash of metal. Gil-galad knelt down more slowly, sheathing the knife he had drawn when Beregar attacked.

Though Galadriel had risen to her feet, the table still partly obscured her view. Like Glorfindel and Círdan she moved to the other side.

The High King was easing his cousin from atop the sprawling Beregar. Around the hilt of the dagger sheathed in Gildor's side the blue fabric of his tunic was hardly darkening yet, but she knew this would change once the blade was removed. Gildor's eyes were hazy with shock and pain, and his mouth hung slightly open. Beside them, Tárion dug one knee into the small of Beregar's back to keep him down, and the tip of his blade touched the skin below the young man's ear. Beregar did not struggle visibly, but his body, lying on its stomach, was as taut as a bowstring.

'Take care. He has not surrendered,' Galadriel told Tárion.

'I know,' the Captain replied. 'But I will need something to tie him up.'  
Rummaging beneath his sea-grey robes Círdan produced a length of rope; it was just like him to carry such a commodity around even in a royal palace. Galadriel tore a strip of cloth from her underskirt, while the Shipwright left the room to find the King's chief Healer.

'That ring he wears had better be removed,' Glorfindel warned, but even as he said it the young man's hand curled up into a tight fist.

'Shall I use force?' the Captain asked. 'My lord King?' But he did not look at Gil-galad while he spoke.

'Wait,' Gil-galad replied absent-mindedly, his attention focused on Gildor.

Galadriel knelt down with the cloth in her hand. 'You can pull the dagger out now,' she told the King. A pity Elrond was not present; he had the best touch of all. But the Peredhel was besieged in Imladris, together with her own spouse. Unless Imladris had fallen. She took a deep breath. _Worry later. It is not as if this is the first time you do so._

While Glorfindel assisted Tárion with Beregar, Gil-galad carefully removed the weapon and laid it aside. Gildor's jaw clenched, but a groan escaped him when Galadriel pressed the cloth firmly against the wound. 'How bad is it?' the King asked.

'I will survive,' Gildor murmured. His gaze, still clouded, sought Tárion's. 'Whoever you are... thank you for tripping up... our friend here.' He grimaced. 'A little higher and...' He faltered, but they could all finish the sentence: the blade might have embedded itself in Gildor's heart.

The Captain, busy tying up Beregar, did not respond; he could hardly point out that it was not for Gildor's sake he had brought the young man down. Guarding his King was quite simply his duty - and especially after bringing an assassin along.

It was Gil-galad who broke the silence. 'You tried to save my life,' he said in an odd voice.

'That is... because I had no time... to think.' Gildor shook, his mouth contorted; Galadriel realised he wanted to laugh at himself but failed because it hurt too much. No one else laughed, though.

His hands tied firmly behind his back, Beregar was hauled up and planted on a chair. His gaze was distant and troubled. Rising to his feet, Gil-galad turned towards him. 'Why did you try to assassinate me?' he asked, sounding more puzzled than angry. 'Look at me.'

Beregar did not speak or move.

'How did you come by Orgol's ring?' Glorfindel wanted to know.

The young man kept his mouth shut and averted his eyes when Galadriel sought his gaze.

'He stole it from Zaba,' Gildor murmured. 'Or so she said. And it was never Orgol's ring to begin with.'

'It is better if you do not speak,' Galadriel told him. The cloth was turning red.

'But I should have told -'

'Yes, you should have,' Glorfindel said with a heavy sigh, and even Finrod's sister could not deny that Finrod's grandson needed some taming and trimming. But such had ever been the case with the scions of Finwë. Including Nerwende Artanis, also known as Galadriel.

Meanwhile, Gil-galad had reached a decision. 'I do not like this at all, but it seems that we have no other choice but to take that ring. Though it may be difficult to determine to whom it belongs and what should be done with it, this young man certainly has no claim to it if it was on Orgol's finger when you' - he looked at Glorfindel - 'first saw it.'

Beregar snarled, attempting to get up, but Círdan's rope had been long enough to tie him firmly to the chair, which in its turn was heavy enough to withstand his efforts.

'Let me do the nasty work and take that ring, my lord,' Tárion offered, drawing his dagger again. His face was turned towards Gil-galad now, but he seemed to be addressing the golden circlet on the King's head rather than the King's person. Apparently something else was wrong as well here. Brushing the Captain's mind Galadriel she could sense a great sorrow, an ebbing of hope. And the Captain was not known to give up hope easily.

'It is better that I remain the only one to touch this ring,' came Glorfindel's voice. 'Having done so before, I know what awaits me, and I know I can ward against the evil it contains.'

The King nodded. 'Very well.'

Beregar began to curse, and though he did so in Adunaic it sounded ugly enough to be a variety of the Black Speech. He spat at the Captain, but in the end, it took no more than Tárion's hand pulling Beregar's head back by his hair and his blade against Beregar's pale, exposed throat to make the young mortal go limp and uncurl his fist. Glorfindel pulled the ring from Beregar's hand. He seemed appalled, but as he gazed down at the gleaming circle resting in his palm his expression changed ever so slightly.

Galadriel thought of her own ring, Nenya, hanging on a chain around her neck, the ring she could not wear as long as Sauron the Abhorred held the One. And she knew that the shadow that lay on these mortal shores was longer and deeper still than any of them had realised.

On the chair, Beregar slumped, his head dropping sideways.

***

**Gil-galad**

Though he stood corrected by Gildor's action - his cousin appeared to be cut from the good, old cloth, after all - it was not Gildor who worried Gil-galad most. When the Shipwright returned with a hurdle, two servants to carry it and a healer to hover over the patient, Gildor maintained that he was very well able to walk to the nearest bed. This proved to be slightly beside the truth and he left horizontally, but it did hold every promise of recovery.  
  
Gil-galad's real concerns were equally divided over two others: the young mortal, badly affected by the forceful removal of the ring; and Tárion. It was unlike his Captain to make such an error of judgement as he had; he should have given notice of Beregar's arrival before bringing him in at all. And his mind was so tightly shut that Gil-galad wanted to shake Glorfindel and shout: 'What have you done to him!'

Perhaps the object of his displeasure noticed something, for Glorfindel closed his hand abruptly around the ring. The other he laid on Beregar's forehead, and a frown creased his own. 'My lady?' he said, and Galadriel joined him to follow his example.

She nodded. 'His mind walks in the realm of shadows.'

'He was called by the Darkness, but without the ring he has lost his way,' Glorfindel said. 'He must rest, though not unguarded, and if he cannot find back to the light of his own accord, I shall go and seek him.'

Tárion turned to Gil-galad. 'With your permission, lord, I will assign two members of the guard to watch over him.'

'Do so,' Gil-galad said, venturing a smile. He received one in return, but it was so brittle, and so heart-rending that it doubled his concern. _What is wrong, Valanya? I beg you, answer me._

_Tonight_. But that was all the response his mind received, and the Captain turned and left the audience chamber.

While the Lady took the chair on Beregar's right, eyeing him intently, Glorfindel opened the hand that held. 'This was Orgol's link to the Dark Lord,' he said softly. 'And Beregar's, once it was on his finger.'

'Do you believe that it was the Abhorred One who suggested him to kill the King?' Círdan wanted to know, taking the chair on Galadriel's other side.

'That is hard to tell.' Glorfindel raised the ring between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. The jewel caught the light of the gemstone lamps and flashed with a dark, sharp flame. Then he put it on. It fitted his finger easily.

'What are you doing?' Gil-galad cried, taking a step forward.

Spreading his fingers and gazing down at the ring as if he was trying it on in a jeweller's workshop, Glorfindel laughed curtly and said: 'This ring does not affect me. I desire not what its whispering voice promises, and he who had a hand in its making and rules it now, knows that it takes more to ensnare me. He will not waste any efforts on me.'

'What does it offer?' asked Gil-galad.

'A measure of power to impose order on my direct surroundings,' said Glorfindel. 'At least, as far as I can tell; it speaks no more to me. But if I can only control things by keeping them on a tight leash, I would prefer to let things run wild.'  
  
As Manwë had chosen to do with Melkor, during the Noontide of Valinor - and who was wiser than the Elder King? Yet much evil had ensued.

Glorfindel took the ring off and put it on the table and went on: 'But if we want to know what it whispered to Beregar, we shall have to ask him.' They looked at the young man, but he had not yet come to his senses.

'So trying to kill me Beregar's was idea of imposing order?' Gil-galad asked sceptically.

'Or the ring - or its master - made the decision for him,' the Shipwright mused.

'Whatever is the case, it is a dangerous thing,' Glorfindel replied. 'It must not fall into the wrong hands. Maybe it ought to be destroyed.'

That was what should have been done with the Three - except that their power to create and heal and preserve had been too great to throw away. 'Could it not be wrested from the Dark Lord's influence and be put to good use?' Gil-galad heard himself ask. 'The Elven-rings can be used for good purposes as well, even though we cannot wear them.'

'The Three were made by Celebrimbor alone,' Galadriel objected. 'They are unstained.'

'Yet they were made to control,' Glorfindel said, just as Tárion returned. They, too, are rings of power, and in their own way no less dangerous. In fact, it is for their sake that I was sent here.'

(TBC)  
  
  


  



	33. Chapter Thirty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Chapter 33

**The Ciryatur**

Of course the savage girl with the preposterous name could not be taken seriously. No doubt she would also have pointed an accusing finger at his people if they had only cut down a single tree, or killed a single deer. Or raped a single woman - for which the perpetrator would have received his just deserts. The Númenoreans were honourable men.

If only he could be certain that the Elvenking shared his opinion. 'But I cannot,' he spoke, though he was alone on the balcony of his palace apartment, with no one to overhear him, while the west wind swept his words away.  
  
The Ciryatur frowned; he should not be alone. His aide should have joined him long ago with the map. And where, he suddenly wondered, was young Beregar, whose imminent return had been announced by Gildor before supper? What kept the fellow so long? Maybe he should have asked Zaba about Beregar's fate, but truth to say he had been too outraged at her allegations to think of anything else. Could it be that she had killed Beregar, as a first payment for all those so-called Númenorean evils?

I retired too soon, the Ciryatur said to himself. He did not know what an Elf-maiden would think of a mortal Man who visited her in her private rooms, but it was there Celebrían had taken Zaba, so that was where he went.

One good thing to be said about the Elves was, that most of them treated him with all the respect due to his rank (the main exception being their king, who had misled him on the quayside and paraded naked in front of him while his catamite lay watching from their bed) They pointed him courteously to the door he sought. As he feared that Celebrían would refuse to admit him he stepped inside without knocking.  
  
He saw Zaba first, in front of the fireplace. 'My father never even dreamed of serving any Dark Lords!' he heard her say. 'You must...' She faltered when she saw the Ciryatur.

The Silver Lady rose gracefully from a high-backed chair. 'Can I help you, my lord?' she asked, her voice matching the cold glint in her hair.

'Actually, my lady, I was looking for your... guest.'

'If you dare to lay hands on me...' Zaba spat.

The Ciryatur did not deign to react. 'Tell me, Zaba' - he made it sound like the insult it was - 'did you by any chance encounter a young man in the wilds beyond this town, a Númenorean called Beregar?'

She gave him an angry look. 'What I can tell you,' she said, her tone as insulting as his, 'is that I was assaulted by a young Númenorean who called himself Falmalion. He stole my father's ring from me. It could have been this Beregar of yours, in which case he also lied about his name. Not that it would surprise me.'

How interesting. 'What happened to him?' he asked impassively, refusing to be angered by such as she.

'He forced me to accompany him to this town and used a trick to enter, allegedly to help me slip past the gatekeepers, though now I believe he guessed that they were looking out for him. Only I could not warn them, for I did not know his true name. I took my chance and ran away. But he still has my ring and I -'

'Zaba,' Celebrían interrupted her, 'maybe you should not openly discuss this ring; did you not hear what I told you about it?'

This was even more interesting. 'So Beregar is here in Mithlond,' the admiral mused, stepping closer to his Silver Lady. Grabbing Celebrían's hand the Ciryatur pressed a kiss on it. 'Thank you for bearing with me, sweetest maiden.'

She pulled her hand away and seemed about to wipe it on her skirt, but checked herself in time. 'Was that all, my lord?'

He smiled. She thought herself above him? Perhaps she needed correction, one day soon. 'It was.'

But it was not, of course.

***

**Glorfindel**

'Have him watched carefully, lest he escapes us,' the King told the Captain when they led Beregar away.

'He will not surprise me a second time, lord,' replied Tárion, avoiding the concern in Gil-galad's eyes.

'You will return here for the meeting?'

'I will.' A nod, and Tárion followed Beregar and the guards.

Glorfindel looked at the ring on the table, knowing that if it had promised him the power to bring joy and mitigate grief and offer infallible guidance, he might have been tempted to use it.

'You told us that you were sent here for the sake of the Elven-rings, my lord Glorfindel,' Círdan reminded him.

Taking his original seat, Glorfindel said: 'I was. When Celebrimbor died, five years of the Sun ago, and passed into the Houses of the Dead, his fëa appeared before Námo Mandos, the master of the Halls and the judge of all Elves who enter them. And he repented of his errors, his desire to preserve the world around him from death and decay by all possible means, his misplaced trust in the one who called himself Annatar, but who was in truth Sauron the Abhorred.'

'My brother's murderer,' Galadriel said, her voice deep like a man's, and almost a growl.

'Whom I am sworn to destroy,' Gil-galad added with grim determination.  
  
At that instant, Glorfindel saw a flash of fire before his mind's eye - fell flames running up the shaft of a spear and enveloping its wielder in a fatal embrace. _Sworn to your undoing_ , he thought, knowing the vision to be foresight. Yet he did not see when or how it would come true, nor was this the proper moment to speak of such things.

'This lord of lies and temptations,' he went on, sighing ever so slightly, 'suggested that with his help, the Mirdain could make Endor as beautiful and enduring as Valinor. A veiled attack on the Powers this was(1), an attempt to create a Blessed Realm without their blessing. But in his eagerness the son of Curufin son of Fëanor had not seen this, and though he and his Mirdain crafted the Three without Sauron's knowledge, just as Sauron made the One without theirs, in the end they will fail, whether the One prevails or not. All that they accomplish shall founder on the unyielding rock of Time, all that they preserve shall fade, and the change and world-weariness they halt, shall overtake you the faster on these mortal shores. So the Powers say.'  
  
'Is this your message?' Círdan asked when Glorfindel paused.

'It is a warning.' Galadriel straightened. 'The Valar tell us not to desire the same power that they have over matter - they who shaped the world from the Vision of Ilúvatar. We are but children to them, toying dangerously with the spark of creation in ourselves, which can easily flare into fire and consume us. As it consumed Fëanor. Is this not so?' She looked at Glorfindel.

'That is what they hold true,' he admitted.

At that moment, Tárion returned and took a seat at the end of the council table, swiftly and soundlessly.

'Do they tell us to destroy the Three?' Gil-galad wanted to know, his eyes narrowing.

'We have tried, Celebrimbor and I,' Galadriel said before Glorfindel could answer, staring at her hands, 'but we could not.'  
  
'Are you not merely defending Celebrimbor now, my lady?' he asked. 'Was it not he who would not, and you who could not, because he never told you how?' And you avoided to ask him? 'For such were his words to Mandos, and the naked fëa cannot lie. Rings of Power, he says, are hard to break.'

The Lady shook her head. 'I have no answer to that.' Do not presume to know what I did and did not avoid.

Bracing himself, Glorfindel turned to the High King. 'The answer to your question, lord, is that the Powers hope I shall be allowed to take the Three across the Sea. In the Undying Lands they will be useless, and Celebrimbor is willing to aid in their unmaking.' Celebrimbor had overcome his desires. His kin in Middle-earth had not, though; Glorfindel could sense the resistance in the present Keepers of the Three.

'A far-reaching request,' said the King, glancing at his Captain, who remained impassive.

'Do all the Powers say the same?' Círdan asked suddenly. 'Do none gainsay the others, as the Lord of Waters did in the First Age, when the Great Sea still lapped the coasts of Beleriand? Does the Lady of Tears and Compassion not counsel otherwise?'

Glorfindel met his far-seeing, blue gaze. 'Perhaps some do doubt,' he said. 'Yet only one voiced such doubts to me: a lesser spirit, who does not deem himself wise or strong. Olórin he is, my friend and teacher ever since I left the Halls of Mandos.'

'I met Olórin long ago, in the Light of the Trees,' Galadriel said. 'He was the servant of the Lady Nienna then. Does he gainsay the Aratar?'(2)

'He does not. Yet he wonders if the three Elven-Rings will not have a part to play in the story of these lands.'  
  
'And what say you?' Círdan wanted to know.

'I have never felt the lure of the Three,' Glorfindel replied, perhaps a little too quickly. 'It is not for me to tell you what to do.'

'Tárion?' Gil-galad asked.

The Captain gestured at Beregar's ring where it rested on the table. Its golden glow had become sullen, as if it was moping, and the gemstone gleamed dully. 'Has it been decided yet what to do with this? If the Dark Lord controls it, should it not be dealt with first?'

Gil-galad stretched out a hand after the ring but then withdrew it again. 'Destroyed, you mean?'

'If Rings of Power are as hard to break as the messenger from the West tells us,' Tárion mused, 'it is possible that we cannot find the means to destroy this one.' He turned to Glorfindel. 'Would the Powers allow any ring controlled by the Dark Lord to come to the Blessed Realm, to be unmade with Celebrimbor's help?'

Glorfindel frowned, and it was Galadriel who spoke first. 'They have no dealings with mortals. Their lives are not bound to the Great Song, and it seems to me that this ring is connected with the fate of Men.'

'They would reject it,' Círdan said immediately. The question that Turgon's son had asked was obviously a welcome distraction from the main subject of debate.

'If we attempt to break it, we must not do so without questioning the young Numenórean first.' Suddenly Gil-galad was High King again. 'Let us not act too swiftly. It could be that Sauron the Abhorred destroys us soon, which would make all our points moot.' Now he did pick up the ring. 'Meanwhile I will keep this safe.' He rose. 'It is late; let us retire. This meeting is adjourned until further notice.'

Glorfindel had the impression that no one regretted the King's decision.

***

**Tárion**

After checking once more on Gil-galad's attacker, who had drifted off in the room where he was confined, watched by two members of the guard, Tárion's feet bore him reluctantly to the King's apartments. As expected, Gil-galad was in the bedroom, only clad in his shirt and leggings, lounging in his favourite chair. When Tárion entered he looked up from the scroll he was reading and cast him an uncertain glance.

The Captain hesitated. Under normal circumstances he would sit down on the bed, all the other chairs being occupied by books, clothes and whatever else his lover - _no_ , he told himself, _cease to think of him as your lover; he will not be yours anymore, though you will always remain his_ \- the High King liked to surround himself with. In the end, he remained standing.

'Say it.' Gil-galad laid aside the scroll. 'Get it over with, so you can sit down and stop looking like an apprentice's first attempt at carving a statue.'

Tárion dearly wished that he could laugh, too. 'I have misled you,' he began, his heart fluttering in his chest. 'I have kept something from you that you had a right to know.'

'Since when?'

'Since the first time we had a private conversation and I could have told you.'

'That was years before this Age began,' Gil-galad remarked. 'And now, all of a sudden, you have decided to make a confession? Or' - his eyes narrowed - 'is there a connection with the arrival of Glorfindel, formerly of Gondolin? You did not merely send me from your room to exchange fond memories, did you?'

'We did exchange memories,' Tárion replied, 'but there was nothing fond about them.'

'And they concerned this devastating truth that you kept from me?'

'They did. But pray, my lord king, do not encourage my attempts to prevaricate. Allow me-'

'My lord king?' Gil-galad interrupted him. 'Where has Arto gone? Did Glorfindel banish him from your heart? I hope not.'

Tárion realised he was not the only one who was prevaricating. He had succeeded almost too well in conveying the gravity of what he was about to disclose. At that instant, he knew with certainty that, were he to say he had second thoughts about the whole thing, Gil-galad would be relieved more than anything, and let the matter rest. Yet in time, the splinter of uncertainty lodged in his heart would fester, if not in a year, then in a yen or in a thousand years, here or in Mandos; the Eldar could never bury a lie by dying.

'Hear me out,' Tárion said swiftly, 'before you say anything you will regret. I told you once that my father was of Fingolfin's following and died in the fall of Gondolin, like my mother. That was no lie. What I omitted to tell you is that my father was not my mother's husband, and that he was more than Fingolfin's follower. He was' - Tárion's fists clenched as if he was grasping a lifeline, except that there was nothing to hold on to.

Gil-galad's facial expression was carefully schooled but he was as quick of understanding as ever. 'Are you saying,' he began slowly, 'that he was Fingolfin's...kinsman?'

Tárion nodded, wondering where his voice had gone.

'Are you trying to tell me,' Gil-galad went on, 'that he was Fingolfin's son? That you were sired by the lord of Gondolin, my predecessor as High King of the Noldor?' He shook his head rather vehemently, in a final attempt to disbelieve his ears. 'Impossible. Turgon was bound to Elenwë!'

At last, Tárion managed to clear his throat. 'When she perished in the Ice it drove Turgon nearly insane. My mother, who had loved him in vain for long years of the Trees, offered him her pity. He took it. Her next offer, that sprung from more than pity, he took as well, barely knowing what he did. And so, between them, they condemned Elenwë to Mandos as long as they both lived, and she bore me, a son of doom and exile who betrayed what he loved most. Like his cousin Maeglin did, be it in a different way.'

'So that is why you were named Tárion? "King's son"... and all these years I believed it was because you were born on that particular day of the week(3) - and you let me call you Valanya and said nothing. But how you must have laughed at me...'

'I _was_ begotten and born on that day of the week,' Tárion said softly, remembering how his mother had loved and detested her own lame joke, depending on her mood.

Gil-galad ignored it. 'And did you ever desire to be High King of the Noldor after your father - son of Turgon?'

'I could not. I never let him acknowledge me.' As soon as he said it Tárion realised that it was not the best of answers. Yet it was the only one he could give in all sincerity.

'What a shame. Surely you regretted that decision, when Turgon's city fell.' There seemed to be a catch in Gil-galad's voice. 'Yet, resourceful as always, you then helped yourself to a considerable measure of power by taking the next High King for a catamite.'

'Catamite?' repeated Tárion uncertainly. He remembered it was the unknown Númenorean word that the admiral had left unspoken, though his thought had been loud enough.

'Ah, yes, I forgot to tell you that I asked one of the Ciryatur's men what it means.' Gil-galad laughed curtly. 'He told me that it was their term for a young man who allowed himself to be used as a woman by an older man.' He rose abruptly. 'And as you are several yeni older than I am it fits the situation perfectly, would you not agree? Especially the first time you took me, when I was still quite young in years of the Eldar. But what a surge of power you must feel running through you, every time you use me to satisfy your needs.' He took a step forward as if to strike, but his mouth trembled.

_It is not like that!_ Tárion thought desperately. _This is not how it has been all those years. I loved you. I love you still. All I want is to serve you. It was wrong not to tell you, but it was not power I was after._ But if he was not even able to convince himself, how could he hope to convince anyone else? And Arto was out of reach; he would heed neither Tárion's words nor his thoughts. Only the King was left - and the King was leaving.

'I need some fresh air,' Gil-galad said, opening the door. 'I expect you to be here on my return, though. We are not done yet.'

The door closed.

Tárion sagged with fatigue, his scarred chest burning painfully. He longed to stretch himself on the bed - if only it had not been the King's bed, from which he would henceforth be banned. And so he lay down on the floor, gazing at the carved ceiling above him and willing his eyes go blank.

But he was unable to enter the path of dreams and find rest.

 

(TBC)

 

1)Or so Tolkien tells us in his Letter to Milton Waldman, probably written in 1951  
2)The Nine greatest Valar  
3)Tárion (Q.: High Day) is the last day of the Eldarin week, also called Valanya, after the Valar. But Tárion also litterally means 'King's son'.


	34. Chapter Thirty-four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Beregar**

He woke up, or came to - he didn't know which - on a bed in a pleasant room. Elvishly pleasant: everything was intricately beautiful, from the finely woven carpets to the flowery embroideries on the curtains and the carved back of the chair beside the bed. Nothing was rough, nothing made in a hurry: the embroideries must have taken years of needlework, the carpets wagonloads of patience on their way to perfection.

It crossed his mind that he disliked Elves: they had all the time of the world to make all that they did appear flawless and superior while Men had not.  
  
Surprised at that thought he sat up, winced and fell back. His head hurt as if he had imbibed two bottles of cheap Hyarrostar brandy(1) within a few hours. He almost passed out again. What...?

His hands met across his stomach, fingers groping - the ring! Last he knew he had worn a ring; where was it now? A keen sense of loss pervaded him, and a knife of pain pierced his temple when he tried to remember. There had been a voice asking questions, countless questions.

_Who are you, what are you, where are you from? What is your age, your gender, who is your lord, your station in life?_

_How did you come by that ring?_

_Tell me. Join me. Come to me, serve me and I will confirm your possession of it and charge the ring to its full potential._

_What would you wish of me? Power Riches? The life of the Eldar?_

_Then tell me - who are you, what, where, how? Come! Hear me, heed me, and make haste!_

Words. And more words. The voice had been fair enough, and it had even convinced him of the unfairness of death in a world that also harboured the undying. Why had he not heeded it? Why not left town to seek out the owner? His head was thick with shadows, clinging like sticky flakes of soot. Thinking made him feel dizzy and nauseated.

Who was he? A man who had run an errand to the palace. To the King. Or had the voice sent him? Had he wanted to obey, or not really - and was that why he had tried to slip down those stairs, just before this Captain of the guard had seen him? And had he merely imagined that it kept speaking to him when he followed the Captain, or had it been real?

_Are you still there?_  
Still there.  
You dislike the Elves?  
I envy them.  
So you do dislike them.  
I cannot stand them.  
You hate them.  
I hate them.  
Their king has great power. He draws it from his subjects. Such is the way with the Elves.  
Yes. I hate them.  
They do not die.  
But they can die by violence.  
Their king can be killed.  
He has no heir. If he dies, they will falter. Maybe fade. Who shall lead his army?  
Maybe I should kill the king.  
I will kill him.  
Other men envy the Elves too.  
They will praise me for killing their king.  
All will know I am powerful. 

He did not know which voice was his own and which was not. If there was any other voice but his own. Had he killed the Elvenking? Why did he not remember? He did remember blood. Not his own. His head hurt. His knee hurt; it had hit the floor hard.

_My ring. I want my ring._ The world was bleak and dreary. Again, he tried to rise; an axe split his skull. Orgol, his mind groaned. Orgol wore it. The bastard who murdered the father of the bastard Zaba

Zaba. She wanted the ring. Had she taken it? No; someone else had, but he could not see either of them for the shadows in his mind.

Suddenly, the door was thrown open. He could hear people speaking: clear, melodious voices. A growl. Fragmented sentences: '... ask the King...' - that was an elf. '... right to see him. He is my...' - this was a mortal. He knew that man. '... must speak to him!'

The sound of a door slamming, loud as thunder. Footsteps approaching. A face looming. 'By my father's tomb! It's you! What nonsense is this?'

It was the Ciryatur. Beregar opened his mouth. 'My lord... I have...'

The admiral's head was a thundercloud hanging over him. 'The Elves claim you assailed their king with a dagger.'

'I did,' he croaked.

A fist grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him up. The pain was almost unendurable and he felt sick. 'Why did you do it?'

Beregar moaned. 'The ring. It's the ring's fault.'

'The ring you took from the girl Zaba?'

What did the Ciryator know of Zaba? Beregar shook his head, which only increased his nausea. 'Mine.'

'How can a thing be at fault?' his admiral asked, eyeing him intently.

'It... it has a voice.'

'Where is it now?'

Beregar did his best to remember. 'The Elvenking had it ripped from me,' he replied at last.' The admiral let go of him and he fell back.

'Will you... help me, my lord?' he managed to ask, swallowing bile.

'You must answer for your own folly,' the Ciryatur said, his voice cold with fury now. 'How am I to explain to the Elvenking why one of my men tried to assassinate him? And blaming it on an artefact! A weak excuse, Beregar Falmálion!'

'Yes, lord,' he heard himself say without wanting it. Then a thought crossed his mind, relatively clear. He grasped it by the tail. 'How did you know... I was here, my lord?'

'Chance, and curiosity. I had set out for the harbour to find my aide, who should have reported to me hours ago, when I saw the guards outside this door. It was never guarded the previous times I came this way, so I asked them what was inside. They informed me readily enough that it was a young Númenorean, who had attempted to kill their High King. They seemed to wonder if I, the admiral of Tar Minastir, had something to do with it.' How dare they! his tone implied. 'I did not know that it was you until I saw you lying here.'

With that, he turned and left. Beregar barely managed to roll over to the side of the bed before his nausea overwhelmed him and he began to vomit.

***

**Gildor**

The healer was a woman of few words; she spoke only three times before she left Gildor to his musings. The first time was to ask what had happened, to which Gildor answered that a crazy mortal had attacked him with a knife. To say that he had tried to save the king despite the fact that it had not really been necessary might leave the impression that he was given to boasting.  
When she spoke again after she finished dressing the wound, it was to warn him that the herbal concoction that went with the treatment would taste bitter. This proved to be an understatement. In Aman they would have made it taste better. Not that he had ever needed such a draught there: in the Blessed Realm, few were wounded, and none by the actions of assassins since the first rise of the Sun and Moon.

The third time the healer spoke it was just before she left, in reply to his question. 'Give it three days before you mount a horse for more than an hour. Tomorrow you can walk, but do not run yet. Come to me in the afternoon and I will refresh the bandages. Elbereth protect you.'

Three days? Surely he was more resilient than that - and the armies would march in two. Pulling up the leg on his uninjured side and staring at the panelled ceiling Gildor tried to make sense of himself, though he was perhaps a little too light-headed to think well. Why had he risked his life for a king who had gazed down at him with the eye of a frosty star, a king who had acquired his crown by default and allowed it to be tainted by errors? A king who had declined the invitation of the Powers to join his kindred in Valinor, preferring to remain where he could be a petty power of his?

A king he envied?

One of the carvings above him seemed to pull a face at him but this had to be a trick of the light. All the same, it was company of a kind. 'It was no attempt to be noble,' he told the carving. 'As I said, I had no time to think.'

The face considered this. 'He is your kinsman,' it offered.

'Blood is thicker than water? In the House of Finwë, this does not always apply,' Gildor told it. 'Fëanor betrayed his brother Fingolfin at Losgar, his sons Celegorm and Curufin betrayed their cousin Finrod. Maeglin betrayed his uncle's city, and would have abducted his cousin Idril if Tuor had not forestalled him.'

'Fingon rescued his cousin Maedhros from Thangorodrim.'

'Does not count. They were lovers.'

'I do not know about that,' the face said primly.

Neither did he, for sure. 'You are being evasive.'

'No, you are, Gildor Inglorion. Why not admit that your reflexes are sound and your heart is hale, even though your mind tells you to be a proud scion of Finwë - as if pride never went before that House's fall?' The carving mostly resembled a disembodied grin now.

'For an outcrop of wood, you seem to know a great deal.'

'I was part of an oak once, listening to the tales of the wind, and waving its branches at the Gil-estel(2) whenever it shone at dusk or dawn.'

'But the oak was obviously cut down. So now you can no longer greet the star of hope.'

'Another, mighty star(3) lies beneath me,' replied the face. 'Alas that it fell from the heaven of blessedness onto this hard earth, and appears to have been hurt in the process.'

'It will heal,' Gildor said, smiling.

He blinked when, instead of the face on the ceiling, it turned out to be Glorfindel who spoke. 'If you can smile, you do not feel too bad, I gather?' The other was standing beside the bed, looking down on him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

'Did I wake you up?' he asked when Gildor did not immediately reply.

'As I was having a conversation with a ceiling panel, it is possible that I was asleep.' Once more Gildor gazed up, but Glorfindel's elongated shadow obscured the carving now. 'However, I did hear your question, and the answer is: I will be hale in two days.' He showed Glorfindel his arm, wounded in the fight with Orgol. 'You see this? Nothing left but a thin line; I must be the fastest healing Elf in Middle-earth.' When he saw the other raise his eyebrows he continued swiftly. 'Did you wake me up to congratulate me for heroically rescuing my cousin, or to rebuke me because I omitted to mention Zaba's story concerning the ring?'

Glorfindel sat down on the bed; to judge by his facial expression, the fondness had defeated the exasperation. It was some time ago, Gildor thought, that he had seen his companion other than worried, preoccupied, or sternly disapproving.

'It would not have made much difference if you had mentioned it,' Glorfindel said, 'for I could feel that Beregar wore the ring as soon as he entered the audience chamber.' He paused. 'You did well, though you probably owe your life to the Captain's presence of mind.' And then he frowned again.

'Glorfindel, what troubles you?' Gildor asked impulsively.

To his surprise, Glorfindel gave him a fairly straightforward answer. 'There are moments when I doubt the wisdom of returning to Middle-earth. Or maybe the word returning is misplaced. These are not the lands that I knew and loved once. Fair Gondolin is gone forever; Beleriand lies under the waves.

Yet this is not all. Do the trees seem less green here, and the heavens less blue, and the stars less radiant because this is not the Blessed Realm? Or because Middle-earth itself has diminished? Or does it merely appear to be so, because I tend to colour my recollections of the past too gaily to paint over the grey of old griefs? I cannot tell; all I have discovered, is that dying does not make an Elda invulnerable to the sting of death. Not that I expect you to understand this.'

'Maybe I do,' Gildor said.

As Glorfindel eyed him doubtfully, he explained: 'When my grandfather Finrod heard you were to return here, he told me that he greatly admired. "I fear I would not have the heart, were such a request made to me," he said. "Darkness would seem more daunting and grief more poignant and evil more harmful than ever it did ere I died. Tell Glorfindel this, should he find himself in need of encouragement." So, here you are.'

Unexpectedly Glorfindel laughed. 'O Gildor,' he said, 'it appears I was right after all to take you along. If your grandsire were here, I would assure him that he is both wiser and more honest than I am - and that I am less admirable than he believes me to be. I am not even a good messenger.'

Suddenly realising that he had missed the very part of the meeting he had most desired to attend, Gildor said shrewdly: 'Well, if you were right to take me along, surely you will no longer object to tell me why you were sent here in the first place?'

Snorting softly, Glorfindel said: 'Very well then, if you insist.'

When he finished the account of his mission, speaking of the three Elven-rings, the counsels of the Powers, the doubts of Olórin, and of the reactions of the King and the Lady, they were both silent for a while. Finally Gildor said: 'You believe that they will say no.'

Glorfindel nodded. 'My heart warns me that they will. Though whether this would be for good or for ill, it fails to tell me.'

***

_Gil-galad_

He took the road leading towards the cliffs beyond the South Haven, walking with long strides but deliberately not running. It would be wrong to run now, whether it would be his legs that ran, or his heart, or his mind. The sky was clouded and he missed the stars and the moon. He decided that he would continue until the few lights still glowing in the palace windows would no longer illuminate his path, and even Elven sight would fail.

Where the paving ended and the road became a track he halted, listening to the rustling of the leaves and the distant surge of the Gulf of Lune. The mournful cry of a night bird pierced his ears. He sighed. The One had granted the Firstborn many gifts, but the gift of oblivion was not among them. This was a place of memory: Tárion and he had been standing in this very spot to discuss the location of the new palace, yeni ago when the Second Age was young and innocent - as innocent as they were. They had never kissed and hardly even touched, save for a brush or two of the mind, yet Gil-galad remembered how the air had seemed to crackle between them and how they had laughed at some silly joke that no one else would have thought funny.

If only he could forget - for then he would not have to be so furious. He yearned to forget that he had ever loved Tárion, or that his lover had failed to tell him the truth for so many years, either of these, or both. But he was an Elda, not graced with forgetfulness but doomed to remember even if he would not.

Gil-galad checked himself. One more thought and he would be blaming his creator. But it was his lover who had hurt him, who should have spoken when he had remained silent, or remained silent when he had spoken, for why reveal the secret now? It was Tárion who had betrayed his trust by not being the Tárion he had seemed to be: not a highday of the Valar(4) but a rival scion of kings whose desire for power was thwarted by an accident of birth.

It was Tárion he should blame, if no oblivion was possible.

He took a few more steps into the ever-thickening gloom; soon it would be irresponsible to walk on. A few more yards. Then he paused again, remembrance invading him once more. Gloom had been the colour of Beleriand towards the end; the shadow of Mandos' Curse becoming longer and longer, Morgoth's black arm reaching further and further. And after the War of Wrath was won by the hosts of Valinor and the fumes had dispersed, grey waves had swallowed the tormented soil, because it was marred beyond repair. The mortally wounded land had found oblivion in the dreamy depths of the sea, and Gil-galad remembered that he had envied it, for young though he was, his memories had burdened him even then.

Of course, Tárion would also wish to forget, both the agony of destruction and the taint of his birth. His father and mother were both dead, their bones buried in the depths of the sea, together with the shattered stones of Gondolin. Reproaches would find no ear, questions would remain unanswered, fury was futile without a target to fire it at.

Why not bury such feelings and memories? Except that the Eldar could not forget. Not in a ten thousand years. They were bound to regret, and to despise and reject all those who marred what should have remained fair and untouched.

I have an aim for my anger, Gil-galad said to himself. I shall whet the spear of my wrath. And the High King of the Noldor returned the way he had come.

(TBC)  


1)I'm sure the Númenorans could easily have discovered the distilling process  
2)The Star of Hope, the name of the Silmaril on the brow of Eärendil, who sails the heavens in his ship Vingilot; the elvish equivalent of Venus.  
3)One possible etymology for Gildor seems to be Gil-taur, 'mighty star'.  
4)See note 3 of Chapter 33  



	35. Chapter Thirty-five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Beregar**

It was only when he had completely emptied his stomach and all he had left to throw up was acid bile, that he began to feel a little better. Of course, now an increasingly foul smell permeated the room, but at least the filth had been expelled, or so it felt. Even the fog inside his head began to lift.

Carefully, Beregar sat up. The headache was mild, compared to what it had been only a short while before. Cautiously, he put his legs to the floor on the clean side of the bed, and rose slowly to his feet. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. Seeking support against the wall he managed to stay on his feet, but for all he knew he was aboard a ship braving the seasonal storms off the Far Harad coast.

He needed fresh air above all now. But once he had crossed the heaving deck to the other side of the ship, the porthole could not be opened, as he could have known - even though it was, in fact, a high window framed in small panels of coloured glass and overlooking a kind of courtyard with a fountain. He supposed it was as beautiful as anything Elvish, but at the moment he could not care less. At the other end of the softly carpeted gangway he reached the cabin door, which he could not open either, but after his fist landed on it, others did it for him. Two Elvish immortals to be precise, armed to the teeth as if ready to engage in deadly combat with the unhappy mortal called Beregar.

He wondered if Elves ever sickened. But they were able to feel nausea, to judge by the way they blanched when they caught the stench emanating from the ship's hold. There was no way they would let him leave. But exchanging a look and probably more, given the Elvish powers of mind-speech, they seemed to reach a favourable conclusion. Pointing some sharp tip at him - as if he could possibly flee in his present state - they led him away to what he supposed would be another place of confinement, with hopefully some fresh water.

It was then, that they encountered Zaba, a fierce-looking apparition blocking the narrow passage they had just entered. 'You!' she cried at Beregar. 'Where is my ring!' What was she doing here?

'Move aside, please, adaneth,(1)' one of his gaolers told her.

Apparently, she was not intimidated by his blade, for she did not obey. 'My ring.' Her stabbing finger made Beregar flinch. 'He stole it!'

'I do not have it anymore. It was taken from me,' he told her.

''By whom?'

'The Captain of the royal guard. On the Elvenking's orders.'

Zaba's eyes narrowed. 'And you are a prisoner now?'

Wishing he could deny it, Beregar remained silent.

'So you are,' she concluded. 'Serves you right for being a thief!' And she moved aside.

They marched on. Looking back - a movement that made him feel sick again, Beregar saw Zaba stand in the entrance of the passage, looking pensive. He wondered if she would try to lay hands on the ring. Perhaps he ought to warn her?

But no. It was not as if she had any chance of stealing it from the High King.

***

**Celebrían**

When Zaba did not return from her - alleged? - visit to the privy, Celebrían knew that she had failed to win the girl's trust. But for that wretched Númenorean she might have succeeded. That man was more than a nuisance.

She left her room. Maybe Zaba had decided to return to the streets of Mithlond to find the young sailor who had robbed her of her precious, evil ring. Not the wisest thing to do; he would most likely be dangerous, and it was doubtful whether Zaba was his match. Celebrían resolved to ask the guards at the main gate whether the girl had left the palace. If she had, they could organise a search.

On her way out, she encountered the Captain of the Guard - Gil-galad's lover, she thought with a pang of sorrow that ebbed away when she saw how despondent he looked. And his long, black braid had come partly undone, as if he had been tugging at it. Seeing her he gave her a courteous nod, though his stride seemed to falter.

Now that they had met again, she could just as well remind him of their previous conversation. 'Captain,' she began, 'have you considered my request?'

Hardly, it seemed, for he blinked, as if he had some difficulty remembering what she was talking about. Nonetheless he said: 'Indeed I have, my lady.'

She waited. At that instant, a faint flicker of movement seemed to flit like a shadow across one of the walls. They both turned towards it, but there was nothing to be seen in the corridor, nor on the stairs that Tárion had just descended, and they turned back to face each other again.

'And what is your answer?' Celebrían asked at last.

'I will help you.' After a brief hesitation he added: 'I understand your position maybe better than you think. Come to the armoury the night before the armies march, after the first change of the guard. I shall join you there.'

'Thank you,' she said, smiling.

His smile was but a faint reflection of hers. She fololwed him with her gaze until he disappeared from sight.

At the main gate, the guards assured her that no one had left save Círdan the Shipwright. The one she sought was probably still in the main building.

'If she shows herself, do not let her leave the palace,' Celebrían told them.

They replied that they had received no orders to that effect.

'I beseech you,' she said. 'It is of the utmost importance. The King needs to hear what she told me tonight.'

They exchanged a look. 'Very well,' one of them said at last. 'We can promise you that we will consult the King first.'

That was good enough. On her way back across the yard, she wondered if she should not seek her mother's advice.

***

**Tárion**

He had said yes to Celebrían's request without being entirely certain that it was the right thing to do. But now that it was said, he would abide by his decision; he understood her too well.

Despite the King's explicit command, he had been unable to remain in the bedroom. Dreams kept eluding him, and dark images were too difficult to ward off while he lay still, having naught to do but to grind the same hard grains of thought over and over in the mills of his mind. As he could guess where Gil-galad had gone it was there he headed, but try as he might he could not think of anything to say, especially not after the distracting encounter with Galadriel's daughter.

Gil-galad was slowly ascending the road from the cliffs, on his way back to the palace, when they met in the dark. Tárion knew him by his black silhouette and the way he held his head; his eyes were hooded.

'My lord...' he said uncertainly while they both halted.

'I thought I had old you to stay in my bedroom,' Gil-galad's voice said, 'but perhaps I should have foreseen that you would not obey the King's command?' Was his tone mildly sarcastic, or merely flippant? They had been together for more than seventien centuries, and yet Tárion could not tell. But he knew the problem did not lay in the King's voice as much as in his own ears.

'It pained me to think of you, walking alone,' Tárion said softly. 'Please, lord. Blame me for lack of sharing, but not for lack of caring.'

'Well spoken. What other beautiful phrases have you thought up since I left?' Again that same tone.

'None,' Tárion replied. 'I would have coined the most beautiful phrase in all Arda to beg your forgiveness, if there was any point in doing so, and if were anywhere near enough. But as...'

Gil-galad pushed past him, shaking his head. 'Come. I would rather not talk about this outside in the drizzle. Beside me,' he added, when Tárion made to follow behind.  
  
'You are right,' he added after a while when they reached the postern at the end of the cliff road. 'It would be utterly pointless.'

Tárion's heart sank. 'Maybe you should appoint someone else to captain your guard in my stead,' he ventured, closing the postern behind them.

'Why? Because of your oversight concerning Beregar?' Gil-galad asked while they crossed the Western Court, their shadows running into all directions in the light of the high lanterns. 'You corrected it well enough when you tripped him up, did you not? If one error makes people unfit for their tasks, I should have abdicated yeni ago. Which, naturally, I could not do, having no heirs of the body.' He paused before going on, his tone pensive now: 'I remember someone asking me if I should not wed a maiden and beget an heir, instead of binding myself to a male lover. I also distinctly remember waving this concern aside, though maybe for the sake of prudence I would have done better to heed those wise words. Or have you forgotten?'

Being the one who had raised the question, Tárion had not forgotten, but as it was rhetorical, he did not reply. 'I only meant to suggest that you remove me from your vicinity, lord,' he explained while they entered the arched passageway leading to the main courtyard.

It was pitch dark in the passage. 'Do you think that would help?' Gil-galad asked, suddenly very close by. 'Do you truly believe that if I wished to eradicate your face from my memory, it would suffice to cease looking at you?'

He halted, and Tárion could feel his hot breath stroke the skin of his cheek and caress the corner of his mouth. _Stop this, Arto!_ he wanted to shout. _Do you have any idea what you are doing?_ But the answer was most likely yes.

'Please, have done with me, lord,' he said hoarsely, 'Or tell me what you wish of me. Is remorse not enough? Then command me to grovel, to abase myself, or whatever it is that will satisfy your outrage - short of demanding that I take my own life.' For you would feel too guilty if I did.

A strangled noise. 'I will never be done with you!' Gil-galad replied fiercely, and he strode on. 'Come.'

He spoke no more until they were back in his room, and then it was only to say: 'Undress. Time to go to bed.'

At first, Tárion failed to comprehend why Gil-galad would still tolerate him in his bed; surely he would not want to make love now? Then it dawned on him. What the King desired had nothing to do with love or pleasure, nor had the need craving to be satisfied anything to do with lust. All the same, he would subject himself to whatever it was his King would have of him. He turned away, more loath than ever to bare his scarred chest while Gil-galad was watching; it was bad enough that he could not escape exposure now, only postpone it.

Slowly, he unbuckled his belt.

***

**Galadriel**

Sitting on a chair in her own room, Galadriel gazed at Nenya, the Ring of Water, resting in her palm. White was its stone of adamant, white as water, though only on the surface. Its depths held many hues: the colour of stormy oceans and sunlit seas, of rushing rivers and dancing streams, of starlit lakes, still meres and stagnant pools; brooks frozen, grinding ice and whirling snowflakes; hailstorms, showers, veils of mist; dewdrops on grass; pearls of sweat, crystal tears innumerable. And across its surface she could see rings widening with time, rippling slowly towards the shores of history, on which they would break when Great Song ended.

And then the long lives of the Elves shall lie wholly in the past, a voice echoed in her mind, one that she knew to be her most beloved brother's.

Water will slow when it freezes over but unless the ice will break and thaw the world remains barren; life needs must flow. Snows will protect the dormant seeds; rains will slake the thirst of the soil and make them sprout; stagnant pools grow murky and foul, but flowing waters cleanse and sweep the filth away. What is this Ring? The power of water, hers to command? Blessing, or danger? A gift unlooked for, doom inevitable? Blood sang in her ears with the voice of the Sea, words of the Lord of Waters: _In the walls of Doom there is ever a breach, until the full-making, which ye call the End. So it shall be while I endure, a secret voice that gainsayeth, a light were darkness was decreed._ (2)

Yet for an exile on these shores, the lure of the Sea was like Doom, and Celebrimbor's ring of water only made the yearning more poignant. What am I to do with this fateful circle?

A face built itself in her mind, framed with silver hair, flowing and shining like a moonlit river, smiling at her, the eyes full of longing. You are ngoldo, wise in lore, my garlanded maid, it told her. Surely you can find knowledge in water.

But you are my sage love, she thought; how shall I find true wisdom without you? And even as she thought it she knew that her spouse was thinking of her in faraway Imladris, besieged but not fallen. The long miles of Eriador, raped and ravaged by the Abhorred One, lay between them, but he lived. And Galadriel knew what she must do.

 

1)'mortal woman'  
2)Unfinished Tales, Of Tuor and his Coming to Gondolin.

(TBC)


	36. Chapter Thirty-six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

Warning: some m/m interaction.

**Gil-galad**

As Tárion undressed very slowly, Gil-galad was ready first. He waited on the other side of the bed until Tárion turned around with all the reluctance to be expected under the circumstances. His right arm twitched and started moving up towards his chest as if to cover the scars, though the owner seemed hardly aware of it. He looked resigned, or more than that: his expression made it apparent that he would not only undergo any treatment the King chose to mete out to him but willingly accept it. Anything, even -

At that moment, Artanáro Gil-galad realised he might yet begin to dislike the person living inside his skin. He watched Tárion's arm come to an abrupt halt, the hand, just short of being a clenched fist, hovering in the vicinity of his heart. 'How do you want me, my lord King?' the owner asked, in a remarkably even voice. 'Facing you, or not?'

'Just let me think,' Gil-galad heard himself say, looking at the planes and angles of Tárion's body. His voice seemed disconnected from the rest of him, as if someone else was speaking. He felt he was not remotely in control of it.

The next moment he threw himself abruptly down on the bed, on his back, arms and legs spread wide in welcome. _Does this answer your question?_ he asked using mind-speech, amazed that it still came out unsteadily, despite the absence of sound. This way, you will have to face me, will you not?

The muscles in his lover's abdomen rippled as if he was laughing - or sobbing. Gil-galad watched his face for a moment that could have been a month or an age, and saw incredulity gather like a cloud. Well, maybe he had been playing hide-and-seek with him. But then, his lover had played hide-without-seek for many yeni.

'I,' Tárion began, and then he, too, changed to mind-speech. _I thought you..._

_... had an evil sense of humour?_ Lame joke.

A blink. _I thought you considered yourself - abused this way?_  
  
And then it was easy. _I did, at first. But I could not remember a time when I did not want it so, or when I did not enjoy it. So what more do I want? What else could I want? And stop looking down at me from such a distance. I don't like to be that far beneath you..._

Tárion promptly dropped on his knees beside the bed. The cloud of incredulity began to disperse. 'Where did your anger go?' he asked, using his voice again.

'It is still there, but I realised it was wasted on one who has had his fair share of pain fighting on the right side. Who needs a quarrel when there is a common enemy? If you feel better begging my forgiveness, then grovel if you must,' Gil-galad replied. 'But I would thank you if you kept it short.' Bliss, he thought, seeing Tárion's smile, is one of those spring mornings when a tree that was naked the day before is suddenly covered in gossamer green.

'Do you forgive me, Arto?' Tárion said.

'If you wish me to cease loving you, Valanya, try something worse. Like falling under the Abhorred One's sway, for instance.'

'Elbereth protect me!'

'And there is this other matter.' Gil-galad said, his face straighter than his voice was level. 'I need your advice about something. So I will have to be nice to you, will I not?' Seeing Tárion's eyebrows go up he shook his head. 'The advice can wait. First things first.'

Tárion bent over the bed, bringing his face close to Gil-galad's. 'Have I ever told you that I love you, too?'

Gil-galad pretended to think hard. 'Well, there was that time at the swan lake, and -' The mouth descending on his did not immediately succeed in silencing him. - _I distinctly remember a sailing trip when we borrowed Círdan's new boat, he went on, and a yen or two ago you..._

_...One of the more misleading things about mind-speech_ , Tárion interrupted him, _is that in theory, it is possible..._

_...to keep talking... while kissing...I know... but..._ Gil-galad gave up. Elves were great speakers. But not all the time.

***

**Glorfindel**

He rose before dawn and left the room with Gildor still asleep, though the younger Elf's lips were moving as if he was dreaming a conversation.

That night, lying awake in his bed, Glorfindel had vainly tried to decide what he would prefer the Lady and the High King to do. If they agreed to let him take their rings to the Undying Lands he would have to embark soon, in case the Enemy would win this war: even with the Númenoreans at their side the Eldar could suffer defeat. If the Three were entrusted to him, he could not partake in the battle.

Would this be a grief or a relief? Glorfindel had found himself wondering whether he could fall again. While he passed through Tárion's door, the door had passed through him without harming him. What was possible with a slab of wood, was also possible a piece of metal, though he was not entirely certain it could be done quickly enough in the heat of battle. He had not dared take the risk during the fight with Orgol's men, nor had it been necessary then. And if, as he foresaw, Gil-galad and Galadriel would keep the three Rings, he would still have time enough to establish his own invulnerability.

Yet he was reluctant to make the discovery. If he could no longer die by weapon, and the Dark Lord prevailed, would he be able to withstand a spirit from before the Shaping of Arda? Finrod's words, spoken by Gildor, sprang to mind: Darkness would seem more daunting and grief more poignant and evil more harmful than ever it did ere I died. Could any valour of the heart protect him against the darkness, grief and evil that would befall him, were he left standing alone?

And what was valour of the body, if there was no pain to fear, if fire could burn and iron bite no more? Or must he make himself vulnerable and face the Halls of Mandos once again? It occurred to him that maybe the Powers had not meant him to stay when they sent him here, and even less to do battle; maybe the second house of the fëa was not built for mortal shores. Would it not have been better if they had sent someone else? Someone who would not have felt obliged to take up arms against the Enemy?

But they had sent him. So he had to believe he was where he had to be. The choice what to do was his.

He found himself roaming the corridors of the palace searching for the room where they had put Beregar. To pull Galadriel and Gil-galad from their beds demanding a decision was out of the question; he would have to wait. But meanwhile, he could go and see how the young mortal was doing.

It took him some time to find what he sought, but Beregar was awake when the guards showed Glorfindel in. He was standing at the window and gazing down into the depths of the courtyard, his face pale. The room, though small, was pleasant enough, but on the bedside table sat a tray of untouched food.

'Are you not well, Beregar?' the Elda asked.

'Would you be, if you were a prisoner?' When Glorfindel did not immediately reply the young man went on: 'Do the Elves also execute assassins if they fail to kill?'

Seldom did the Elves mete out capital punishment. King Turgon, Glorfindel's former lord, had executed the murderer and husband of his sister, heeding no pleas for mercy. But Eöl's knife had been poisoned, and he had tried to kill his own son; no mitigating circumstances there.

'It is for the High King to decide your fate,' he said at last. 'But I would be surprised if Gil-galad will let life pay for injury.' It was possible that the King would leave punishment to the Ciryatur, but this was not a reassuring thought, and Glorfindel refrained from saying it. 'Do you know why did you do it, Beregar? You were influenced by Orgol's evil ring, were you not?'

'Evil...' Beregar muttered. 'Yes. Evil. It told me to kill... no, it made me think I had to to kill...' He cleared his throat. 'It made me realise I envied the Elves. As many mortals do. It... suggested that I would be praised and admired if I killed their king. As if I asked for such praise. It was a lie, of course. I don't know why I fell for it.'

 

Because you were too weak to resist it, Glorfindel thought. You do crave praise and admiration; your face and voice belie your words. Few were entirely without such desires. In this, Men and Elves were not all that different. But only the Eldar lived long enough to outgrow them as they matured and learned to recognise their own worth.

'Why do you envy us?' he asked, wanting to hear it from Beregar's mouth.

'You are more beautiful than we are. More skilled. Better. Stronger. Swifter, with keener eyes and ears. You have magic. You do not get sick. Do not age. You do not -'

Glorfindel remained silent. He saw Beregar swallow. Before the silence could become oppresive he said quietly: 'Do you also believe that we do not suffer? Know no fear? Cannot... betray, and be cursed?'

Cringing, the young mortal looked away. 'Just leave me, Glorfindel.'

'And leave you to wallow in your misery?'

Beregar sat down heavily on the bed. 'Can you help me then?'

'I do not have the answer to that,' Glorfindel said. 'But what I can do, is try.'

***

**Tárion**

Emerging from his dreams, he noticed that some someone was gently brushing his hair, or the part of it that had escaped his braid. Without moving his head he asked: 'Would it not be more practical if I were sitting?'

The brushing stopped. 'I was trying not to wake you,' Gil-galad's voice said.

Tárion sat up and felt at the back of his head, where the other half of his hair seemed to be partly braided still.

'That is the half you were lying on.' Gil-galad untied the leather thongs that kept the remainder in check. His own hair was messed up even more thoroughly, but then he never bound it as tightly as Tárion used to do.

For a while they did not speak, brushing and rebraiding each other's hair, softly humming and basking in the quiet satisfaction that pervaded the room. Without consciously attempting to read his lover's mind Tárion was able to catch a few stray thoughts or fragments of thoughts, amused, pensive, relaxed, sometimes barely crossing the threshold of conscious thinking, mere wafts of music or wisps of light. And he sensed that Gil-galad caught the same images and snatches of wordless significance from him. Was it truly stronger than ever before, or was that merely how he wanted it to be?

'I do not think it was quite as strong the previous time,' Gil-galad said.

'When was the previous time?' Tárion mused. 'Over a yen ago(1), if my memory serves me right. And I do not think the play was quite as rough.'

'Are you complaining?' his lover grinned, sending a vivid image his way.

They had, in fact, reversed roles at some point last night. Tárion had sensed a residual anger that Arto quite simply had to ride out, and he had spurred him on without minding the hurt. There was no pain he could not withstand by calling a worse one to the field.

'I will tell you presently,' he replied, fastening another hair clip and surveying the result.

'Now you sound like Celebrían yesterday at supper, undermining the case of Orgol's people.'

Celebrían! Suddenly Tárion did feel the urge to lock away part of his mind. He was about to hide it behind a flippant remark when it dawned on him that he could not possibly keep this from Gil-galad, not after all that had transpired between them.

'Arto, there is something I have to tell you concerning Galadriel's daughter,' he said. 'But it must remain a secret.'

Slowly, with a slight frown, Gil-galad nodded. When Tárion finished, though, he shook his head vehemently. 'Sickle of the Valar! This is madness! How could you ever face her mother, should the worst come to pass? You know why she is doing this, do you not?

_I will deal with her mother when and if I have to._ 'I do. So does Celebrían. She is no child, and I gave her my promise. Do not make a liar out of me. If I am telling you this, it is because I did not want to keep any more things from you.'

'Still,' Gil-galad said, an unexpected hard edge to his voice: 'I could decide that you had no right to make such a promise. I could act on what you told me, and forestall this folly.'

Tárion froze, as if an abyss suddenly opened before his feet. Was he wrong in believing they had smoothed it all out? Had their lovemaking lulled him into false security? Was this the true power contest? If so, the peril was dire. In this he could not yield, even if he were ready to admit that his promise had been rash - which, as it happened, he was not. 'You could also bid me guard her with my life.'

'And what, if I bid you stay here? You are not fully healed yet.'

'Did you find me lacking in endurance tonight?' Tárion asked with a stony face.

Gil-galad blinked. Then he laughed curtly. 'This is a test, is it not? Do I want to know whether I have any other power over you than the power of love that wishes you naught but well? Do I truly want to discover who rules whom and by what right?'

Tárion took a deep breath. 'At this moment,' he said, 'we are standing at the precipice of Caragdûr, the rock of execution from which my father had Eöl thrown to his death, the abyss into which Tuor flung the traitor Maeglin. It was a black rock and a long fall. We can try to push each other over the edge. We can jump in of our own accord. And we can turn our back to it and walk away together.' He laid a hand on Gil-galad's shoulder. 'All I can or will rule of you is your heart. And I trust it to do right by both of us.'

The kiss they shared was one of peace and settlement. 'Guard her the way you would guard me, then,' Gil-galad finally said.

'I shall.' Tárion straightened. 'Now what advice was it you said you wanted to ask of me, last night?

The answer was a rather exaggerated snort.

'Very well,' Tárion said wrily. 'What would I do with Nárya and Vilya, if that decision fell to me? Would I let Glorfindel take them West to be unmade by their maker? Or would I risk letting them fall into the Abhorred One's hands, should this war be lost?'

'And the answer?' Gil-galad rose from the bed and went to the table where his royal circlet rested.

_You are not going to put it on my head so soon again!_ Tárion thought. _If ever._

His lover did not touch the circlet. Instead, he turned around with a frown. 'Did you put the ring that we took from Beregar into the cabinet? I remember it was on this table when I left last night. But it is gone now.'

With a sinking feeling, Tárion rose as well. 'I am certain that was still there when I went after you.'

'And when we came back?'

They stared at each other in dismay. They had both been far too distracted at the time to pay any attention to the table and what was on it.

Without bothering to dress first they searched the entire area, crawling about on all fours. Finally, they faced each other on the floor between the table and the bed, feeling more than a little ridiculous.

The conclusion was inevitable. 'Someone entered and took it.' said Gil-galad.

'Arto,' muttered Tárion, 'I have been a complete ass to walk out of here while that accursed thing remained here unguarded.'

And all, because he had desired to forget. This was, how guilt crept upon Eru's children, how failure insinuated itself into Arda: one finger wrongly lifted here, and elsewhere disaster would strike; one small error perpetrated in the past, and future realms were fated to fall.

'That makes two of us,' Gil-galad said. 'I should have locked it into the cabinet right away. Or put a guard or two before my door. So here we are, two foolish scions of Finwë, worthy of all those kinsmen who also heaped mistake on error, back in the old days. Our own fathers not excepted.'

Tárion laughed mirthlessly. 'But who could have taken it?'

Again, they stared at each other. It was only too obvious that the thought crossing Tárion's mind also crossed Gil-galad's. What, if Glorfindel had overestimated himself, and had fallen prey to the lure of this ring?

(TBC)

1)That is correct, yes: 144 years. But they're Elves.


	37. Chapter Thirty-seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Galadriel**

It was not until breakfast that Celebrían told her mother of her conversation with Zaba, last night, and of the girl's disappearance and unexpected return, after which she had spent the rest of the night in Celebrían's room. Zaba claimed to have lost her way inside the labyrinth that was Gil-galad's palace. But Galadriel, taking her clue from her daughter's voice, doubted the veracity of the girl's claim.

Reflecting on Beregar's foiled assassination attempt, Galadriel was more than a little concerned. If Zaba had actually touched Orgol's accursed ring, could it be that she had sensed its lure while she was roaming about the palace? Could it be that this ring had drawn her to itself, craving another mortal to be worn by, and that she had been looking for it?

At that moment, Zaba arrived at the breakfast table, and Galadriel observed her for a while.

Though the girl ate normally, she was silent and withdrawn, a remarkable contrast with her very vocal presence during last night's dinner. It was a little worrying. But Galadriel's worst fears did not come true until the High King entered and stabbed her mind with a thought like a spear thrust, as if he was handling Aiglos itself: Someone stole Orgol's ring from my room, last night.

Zaba, Galadriel thought immediately, though she would rather not believe it. The girl's anger at the Númenoreans had been great but also honest, untainted by evil. At this very instant she met Galadriel's searching gaze without averting her eyes. But then someone asked her to pass the salt and the contact broke - too soon.

'Zaba could not know where the ring was,' Gil-galad objected when Galadriel took him apart after breakfast. 'Unless someone told her that I took it. to my appartments. Whoever stole it must have known I did.'

He eyed her inquisitively, but when he did not say it, she did. 'I knew. So did Círdan.'

The King shook his head. 'Not the Shipwright. I questioned the guards a the main gates and they told me that he left the palace soon after last night's - eventful meeting,' he said, his tone almost apologising, as if he expected her to take offence on Círdan's behalf. 'He did not return while they were on duty, which was until dawn. I was in my room when he left.'

He paused and went on: 'Nor could I think of any reason why he would take it. Or you, my lady,' he added tentatively.

It would be pointless to protest her innocence. If he thought her capable of this theft, he had never known her. 'And Tárion?' she asked. 'He touched it.'

She caught the outrage flashing crossing his face before it composed itself again. Whatever had been amiss the night before, today the King stood up for his Captain as faithfully as ever. 'Have we established, then, that it is necessary to touch the thing in order to covet it?' he asked sharply.

'I, too, have touched it.' Glorfindel said, joining them; obviously he had overheard a great deal of their conversation. 'And more. If touch is decisive and you are listing suspects, my lord, my lady' - he inclined his head - 'you would be well-advised to put my name prominently on the list. After all, I joined the rebellion against the Powers once. Who can tell if I will not lapse into folly again, with a clean record waiting to be filled with new errors?'

There was more than a touch of mockery in his voice. Of course: he was speaking to one who had never been pardoned for her part in that same rebellion. If this ring was designed for mortal men, Galadriel mused, then why did it affect Elves as well, as it seemed to do?

She saw the King frown, and for a moment she thought that Gil-galad would reply in kind, telling Glorfindel that he had, indeed, put him on his list. But when he opened his mouth it was to say: ' I see. You decided to secure it in advance, confident that we would consent to entrust you with the Three and let you take all the rings west, there to be unmade by Celebrimbor's repentant fëa. I did not see you at the breakfast table, my lord Glorfindel. Perhaps you went to the harbour to tell our good Shipwright that he could ready a vessel for you?'

Galadriel saw Glorfindel's gaze pass from the King to her and back to the King again, reading the same choice in both of them. 'As a matter of fact,' he retorted, unfazed by Gil-galad's royal bout of sarcasm, 'I paid a visit to the armourer, asking him to fit me out for battle - in case you would not consent to entrust me with the Three, as I now suspect is the case.'

The silence following those words was eloquent enough. Glorfindel briefly bent his head before continuing to the King alone: 'But first, I paid a visit to your prisoner, young Beregar. We spoke at length. Part of it will have to remain private. Some things, though, may be of interest to you, my lord.'

***

**The Ciryatur**

When the admiral and his war captains had mustered the Númenorean army they had all agreed that it could have marched yesterday, if only the Elves had made a little more haste. But then, the Elves had all the time of the world to procrastinate, trifle and get distracted from their purposes. If the Noldor had not neglected to attack Morgoth while they still could, during the long years of peace in First Age Beleriand, they would be harping and singing less sadly today - or so some scholars of Armenelos claimed. The Ciryatur was inclined to agree. He liked First Age history, especially as it taught him that the Eldar, though immune to sickness of the body, were not that much better protected against the ailments of evil and failure than mortal Men.

At least this army, he thought, surveying it with satisfaction, would not fail. It was large and well equipped, shining blades whetted, spears sharpened, shields burnished, helmets polished. It was also eager to march and for the most part eager to fight orcs and the lesser and more stupid people of Middle-earth. Tar Minastir had decreed that it would be a waste to recruit too many farm lads and fishermen for a war that was in the fist place a conflict between immortals, and sent the better part of his standing army.

The Elvenking's explanation for the Dark Lord's sudden onslaught, or rather his vague suggestion that Sauron had been planning this attack since the Age was young, had not really satisfied Tar Minastir. The Ciryatur agreed wholeheartedly, especially as his own attempts to delve beneath the surface of the conflict had foundered on Gil-galad's glib evasiveness. His spies, planted in Mithlond to listen around and ask innocently curious questions, had fared little better. All they had been able to discover, was that some Noldorin lord, a master craftsman, had made a mistake by not perceiving Sauron's true intents when he should have. This was intriguing, but too vague to be truly illuminating.

And young Beregar was a complete disaster. Almost. Thinking of Beregar, the Ciryatur reminded himself to ask the Elvenking that the young man be delivered up to Númenorean justice.

But surely the army would prevail. And his host - Tar Minastir's he corrected himself - was far more numerous than the Elvenking's. The admiral wondered if, rejoined with the forces he had dispatched to the mouths of the Gwáthlo, it would be large enough to occupy all Eriador, thereby securing its many riches for Númenor. The island had few enough natural resources, and no silver or gold, or mithril. The lands of Middle-earth had all of these. Occupation would even solve the problem of an Elvenking prepared to interfere with Númenorean woodcutting on behalf of the Dunland savages. In fact, it was an attractive thought, save for the tiny detail that his mandate did not include the word 'conquest'.

He tried to imagine what his king would say to such an endeavour. Would he applaud it?

Most likely not. Tar Minastir envied the Eldar, but he still loved them enough to wish them well. His son would probably be interested, but he was too young. By the time his sire would surrender the sceptre, the Ciryatur would be heading for his tomb.

The admiral returned to the commander's pavillion for a last consultation with his captains. In the afternoon, he would once more see Gil-galad, the deathless one whom Beregar had failed to slay. Maybe he could seek out the silver maiden, too.

It occurred to him that if he would succeed in conquering Eriador, she might be among the spoils of war.

***

**Gildor**

Despite the healer's advice to take it easy, Gildor was up and about long before the morning grew old. Before he rose, he had been trying to decide whom he would seek out. The ceiling panel had dissuaded him from visiting Beregar, after he had jumped between the young man's blade and its intended victim. A pity that events had taken this ugly turn; there had been moments when Gildor had believed that despite their differences, the two of them could be friends.

Gil-galad would be too busy today, nor was Gildor very eager to face his kinsman and witness another display of embarrassed gratitude. They had best forget about the incident and learn to coexist peacefully. With Glorfindel he had already spoken; he had no idea what to say to the lady Galadriel even if he met her by accident, and the Captain of the Guard who had saved his life by tripping up Beregar would be to busy making preparations for tomorrow's march.

_Zaba_ , he thought suddenly. What had become of Zaba, who had put her complaint before the King on Gildor Inglorion's advice, merely to run into an adjournment of her case, and from there into trouble?

The girl proved difficult to find, also because Gildor could not move with his usual speed. Few people knew who he was looking for, and none of those who did know had set eyes on her after she had eaten breakfast in the dining hall. Too soon, Gildor grew too tired to pursue this mortal phantom. Resolving once again not to be left behind when the armies marched he asked the way to the armoury. When it proved empty of people and almost empty of weapons, he proceeded to the palace smithy. There, he hoped to find someone who could provide him with the pieces of armour he had not brought with him from Valinor, such as a helmet.

It was there that he found the one he was no longer looking for. From a cautious distance, Zaba stood watching one of the smiths hammer away at his anvil. Though her back was turned towards Gildor, he recognised her small, compact figure and the tautness of her body - the poise of one never wholly at rest and ever ready to bolt - or to strike. The poise of a cat. And he could relate to felines.

He watched her watching the smith, who did not seem to mind having an audience as long as he could ignore it. Despite her tension she stood very still, the only still thing amidst the energetic movements of the smith, the rise and fall of the hammer, the dance of the fire in the forge and the erratic flight of the orange-red sparks. Gildor, whose Noldorin blood was rather diluted after Finwë and Finrod had wedded Vanyarin women and Finarfin a daughter of the Teleri, wondered what the innocent metal thought of being beaten so mercilessly, and if it hissed in distress every time the smith plunged it into his cold water basin.

The next moment, just when it occurred to him that he could just as well ask its opinion about being thrust into living flesh, Zaba spoke up. 'Do you have a sword for me?' she asked the smith.

Without ceasing to work he answered: 'Try the chief armourer.'

'And where is he, if I may ask?' Gildor put in, this being his problem as well.

Zaba wheeled. 'You!' she cried loudly, before the smith could reply. 'Much good did it do me to complain to the Elvenking! I ended up being accused myself! Where was your support?'

'And a good day to you as well, Zaba of the Uncurbed Pride.' Forgetting his incompletely healed wound, Gildor made a mocking bow, which he regretted immediately. 'If I recall correctly, no formal accusation was made against you. And as for supporting you, the complaint you did make had nothing to do with what you told me in the streets of Mithlond about this stolen ring.' He also remembered smiling encouragingly to her all the same, but without her noticing it, and he doubted she would believe him now if he said so.

At the words 'stolen ring', she seemed to flinch. It could have been the restless light in the smithy or his own imagination, but he did not think it was. 'Why a sword?' he went on; she wasn't tall enough to handle a Noldorin blade.

'What does one do with a sword?'

'Fight.'

'And?'

'Kill,' Gildor admitted. 'But whom do you want to kill.?'

'Do you Elves usually kill friends?'

He swallowed an indignant retort. 'So, what enemies would you kill?'

'If you two have no further need of me,' the smith put in, 'go and take your altercation elsewhere.' The intensity of his hammering increased.

Gildor frowned, about to tell him that his manners left something to be desired. But Zaba said: 'Let us find the chief armourer,' and grabbing his arm she pulled Gildor along. He winced. 'What ails you?' she asked him.

'Incident,' he replied curtly; despite everything, he was loath to accuse Beregar to the face of someone who could not possibly be his friend. 'Who are your enemies? The Númenoreans? The Elves? If so, I do not think I will assist you in your search for the armourer.' And if I find him myself, I will warn him not to provide you with any sharp edges.

'I do no not need you! And if you are injured, as I think, you cannot stop me, Elf boy.'

Gildor sighed. 'So you intend to do something I would prevent, if I could?' he asked.

Seeing her eyes, half-defiant, half-troubled, he felt a sudden surge of pity. The girl was alone. Not even the other two members of Orgol's company had remained with her, as if they did not truly consider her one of them despite everything she had said in the dining hall. In Númenorean eyes she was a mere bastard, while the Eldar of Lindon would treat her correctly but deem her worth little attention and less interest.

'Is there anything I can do for you, Zaba?' he asked. 'I do hope that you are not planning -

'- to kill any of your proud allies, who will promptly blame the Elves for letting me run loose, and sail back home?' She laughed mirthlessly. 'How stupid do you think I am? If I want your King to do anything for my people - because he feels obliged, or guilty - would I alienate him by such an act?' Turning away she added: 'How desperate am I, to go for counsel to the Elves! But maybe I will find other counsel yet!' And with that she marched away.

'Zaba!' Gildor cried, fearing he had made a bad thing worse. 'Please wait!' Following her was not possible; he could walk, but in his present condition he could not yet run. 'Wait, Zaba!' he cried again.

But she did not halt.

 

(TBC)


	38. Chapter Thirty-eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Glorfindel**

'If I understand you correctly,' Gil-galad said slowly, 'Beregar told both his admiral and the girl Zaba that I had the ring?'

Glorfindel nodded. 'So he said. But he meant no harm,' he added quickly. 'Nor can we tell with any certainty that this led to the theft.'

'Yes, do defend him!' the King said. 'He will need it. Though I am inclined to lenience, I doubt if his admiral will be of like mind. Knowing the man a little by now, I suspect he sees this attempt on my life by one of his sailors as a loss of face that may give me an unfair advantage over him. He may want to exact a severe punishment.'

'Does Beregar stand in peril of being executed?' Galadriel looked dismayed. 'Did you not visit Númenor repeatedly, Glorfindel? Do they decree capital punishment for such an act?'

'Not that I am aware of,' Glorfindel replied, 'though it could be that I failed to notice any changes they made. But Beregar's deed may well be considered treason. Would you deliver him up at the Ciryatur's request, my lord King?'

Gil-galad sighed deeply. 'To be honest, I do not have an answer to that. Yet. But I am well aware of the possibility that I may need one soon.'

The three of them fell silent, all thinking the same. Chastising Beregar for his folly seemed right, and as the young man acknowledged that he had acted wrongly he might even see the justice of it. But the price of a life was not refundable.

Gil-galad would undoubtedly be aware of all this. He had been the target of the attack, but under normal circumstances he would rise to the occasion and turn a deaf ear to any requests to deliver up Beregar; of that, Glorfindel was convinced. Unfortunately, the circumstances were not normal; there were other, and greater interests at stake.

There had to be another solution.

***

**Gil-galad**

It was Beregar himself who confirmed Glorfindel's account: yes, he had told both Zaba and the Ciryatur what had happened to the ring after Tárion had forcefully pulled it from his finger. Gil-galad had regretted the necessity to verify the Elda's words, but he trusted that Glorfindel would see the reason of it.

Beregar had been ready enough to speak. He had even apologised, in an embarrassed and almost grudging way. Gil-galad had listened to the stammered apology with as much grace as he could muster, given the fact that the young man was a terrible fool. He had even accepted it personally, though not in his capacity of High King of the Noldor. That would take a more formal occasion.

Not that it solved much of the newly brewed troubles. Beregar's account had greatly reduced the likelihood that Glorfindel had taken the ring to (and Gil-galad berated himself for suspecting him in the first place). The two new suspects, however, only complicated the matter.

Zaba could be subjected to questioning and even to a body search, but in order to do so they would have to find her first - and after breakfast she had vanished. The Ciryatur's whereabouts were known, but his status safeguarded him from being interrogated, let alone having his person searched.

It was above all the admiral who worried the High King. It seemed a singularly bad idea to march against Sauron the Deceiver in the company of a man holding a ring that could bring him under that same Deceiver's sway. But unless Zaba had the ring and they would find her soon, Gil-galad saw no possibility to avoid it. Even if the departure of the joined armies could have been further postponed - which was not the case - the Ciryatur would not become any more searchable for it.

So the King had the entire palace and all the courts combed out as thoroughly and discreetly as possible. The girl was nowhere to be found; though according to the gatekeepers she had not left. And while Glorfindel could tell the ring was not far away, he was unable to locate it accurately, as if he were somehow less attuned to it after having rejected its evil suggestions. Or so he said, and that was something Gil-galad had to take for granted.

Meanwhile, and ironically enough, the only person who was entirely above suspicion, seemed to be Beregar. As Tárion had pointed out, even Gil-galad himself could be the culprit.

'Theoretically, you could feign the ring was stolen to be able to wield it secretly, without anyone being the wiser,' he had explained without batting an eye. 'I never saw it lying on that table, so I cannot be wholly sure that you ever put it there - as you cannot be wholly sure that I am not lying to you, having taken it during your absence.'

'There are moments when I wish that you were more simple-minded,' Gil-galad had told him with an exaggerated sigh, and that had been the end of the discussion.

Now, he was sitting opposite the Ciryatur at the council table, the last meeting of the captains concluded, the last instructions handed out to be distributed. One night separated them from the road that would lead them either to defeat and enslavement, or to victory and the liberation of Eriador.

Though not all, Gil-galad mused sadly, remembering Zaba's complaints and accusations, may welcome this freedom with open arms.

'My lord King,' the Ciryatur intoned. When the King looked up he continued: 'With your leave, there is one more matter that I would discuss.'

He was entirely too deferential. Bracing himself, Gil-galad stabbed a pleasant little smile at the other. 'But of course.'

'I hear that last night, one of my sailors, a young man by the name of Beregar Falmálion, made an attempt on your royal person. I am relieved to see that he failed. Also, I understand that you hold him in detention.' The Ciryatur waited.

'That is correct,' said Gil-galad. 'And thank you, my lord admiral.'

The other inclined his head. 'As the perpetrator of this abject crime is a subject of Tar Minastir, the King of Númenor, whose representative I am in the realm of Lindon, I have to request that he be delivered into my hands, after which I shall send him home to be tried and punished according to our ancient laws.'

_I am more ancient than your laws!_ All the same, a blunt denial was not advisable, even though Gil-galad could maintain that the verdict was his to give. 'Is my assumption right that such a trial would require the presence of those who witnessed the assault?' he inquired. He could not for the long life of him see Galadriel take ship to sail even a quarter of a mile west, as this would make her sea-longing unbearable. Nor was he sure it would be wise for him or Tárion to venture upon the waters that separated them from most of their kin, living or dead.

'The evidence could be presented in the form of written and sealed documents. The royal seal of the High King of the Noldor will undoubtedly be good enough for a Númenorean court of law.'

'I am glad to hear it,' the High King of the Noldor said, swallowing an incensed retort. 'Even so, it would take some time to draw up such documents. Moreover, I would prefer that this be done in the presence of the accused, enabling him to have his reaction to the accounts of the eyewitnesses put on record. We cannot tread carefully enough. So, my lord admiral, I would suggest that we postpone further decisions until after our encounter with the Dark Lord, hoping and praying that we shall prevail.'

The admiral did not reply at once, but the flicker of annoyance crossing his face spoke volumes. He had to realise that he could hardly demand a yea or nay here and now, however much he would like to do so. His jaws worked, but finally he nodded his assent and rose. 'As you wish.'

Gil-galad sensed his outrage. He envied Galadriel, who would have known what the other was thinking. He also wondered what the Numenórean really wanted of Beregar. Punish him - or interrogate him about his experience with Orgol's ring? And how far would he go to secure the young man, knowing how reluctant the 'Elvenking' was to thwart a man whose help he needed?

***

**Celebrían**

She met the Captain in the appointed place, dressed in a tunic and leggings.

He had a shield lying at his feet, with a folded coat of mail, a helmet, a sword, and a bow on top. To her dismay and annoyance, he had also brought his second-in-command, introducing him as Argon son of Arminas, a survivor from the Dagor Bragollach, who had fled to the Falas after Morgoth Bauglir had overrun Dorthonion in the First Age. Why did he have to draw others into this? What, if Argon were to cross her mother's path? One furtive glance could be enough to tell Galadriel that something strange was afoot - and she would not shrug such an observation away.  
  
Celebrían cast a stern look at Gil-galad's bedmate as he stood there between the almost bare walls of the armoury, but unlike last night he withstood her gaze with ease now. Of course, she thought. I am the needy one, the one who is asking the favour.

Then, she saw the archer's butt on the farthest wall. So she was to be put to the test first?

'My lady.' The Captain of the King's guard sketched a - mocking? - bow before he turned to his second-in-command. 'As we still need replacements for two members of the King's guard who were slain during the recent skirmish in the Emyn Beraid, let us test this particular applicant's abilities.' He held out the bow to Celebrían, while Argon handed her an arrow from the quiver on his back.

_Applicant?_ Taking both bow and arrow, she raised her chin defiantly. 'Do you think I would have made my request if I could not shoot or handle a sword?'

'Ah,' the Captain said, 'but does that make you fit for the King's Guard?'

She put the arrow on the string and aimed. 'You tell me.'

'Fire,' he said.

She loosed the arrow. 'Good enough?'

'Good shot,' he agreed. She had hit the target. 'But just good is not good enough. Second arrow, please.' Argon handed her another arrow from his quiver. The captain picked up the sword and the shield and took a few steps back. 'I am the enemy. Shoot me.'

Celebrían stared at him.

'Why do you hesitate?' he said. 'Shoot me.'

She aimed, but he had already raised the shield. She lowered the bow to aim at his legs instead. Something flashed past her face. The bowstring snapped and one of the ends hit the chin she had raised in defiance but a short while ago. For an instant, the pain took her breath away, and tears blinded her eyes, though she managed not to cry out, or drop the bow.

She heard the screech of metal on metal. Blinking away the moisture she discovered that Argon had blocked the Captain's second sword stroke, the one aimed at her neck. The blade was sharp enough to kill.

'What does this tell you, my lady?' the Captain asked her.

She swallowed. Would he have killed her if Argon had not been swift enough. Fury rose in her, and she opted for defiance. 'That a good bowstring has gone to waste!'

'Not if it spoke to you when it snapped.'  
  
After a rather long silence, she offered: 'A dead guard is a bad guard?'

'Close, but not close enough.' The Captain waited.

It began to dawn on her. 'You mean that good guards do not need to be guarded, and that if they are slain, they are slain in defence of their King, not because they were too slow, or because they hesitated?' Célebrian shook her head. 'I do not ask to be guarded.'

He merely gazed her. That was when she realised what he was really telling her: that even though she was prepared to die for Gil-galad, the Captain could not allow her to fall. Her presence in the battle would demand that he defend _her_ with his own life first, not the one he loved.

_So I did find a way to come between him and Gil-galad..._ And she could see that the Captain was well aware of it. By making her a member of the King's Guard he could watch over her and at the same time stay close to his lover, thereby reducing the risk that he would have to make a choice that would rend his heart. But eliminate it, he could not.

Then why had he agreed to her request, last night? Because he knew that she would join the army regardless? She did not understand him. Did he expect her to desist now, having made clear to her what it was she was doing?

Celebrían straightened. 'This situation fell short of reality,' she objected, turning deliberately to the Captain's second-in-command. 'Had the Captain been an orc, I would not have hesitated.'

'You will not only face _yrch_ ,' replied Argon. 'Many of our foes are mortals. Usually, they are not hideous to look upon. Will you slay them as readily?'

'If they serve the Dark Lord, I surely will.' _But will I? How can I be certain? I never killed one before._ Celebrían turned back to the Captain. 'I have no need of your protection, sir. My mother taught me to wield a blade, my father taught me to shoot. I assure you that you can do your duty by the King as you always do, Captain.'

She saw her words hit home. Putting down shield and sword, Captain Tárion bowed once more, and indicated the pieces of armour at his feet: 'Put this on and we shall test your prowess, though I do not doubt that your mother taught you well. Should this indeed be the case, then we have found a new member of the guard - for the time being.'

 

(TBC)


	39. Chapter Thirty-nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Beregar**

If there was one Elf he could trust, Beregar thought, lying in his bed with his eyes closed, it was Glorfindel. Not that he had done or said much; he had mainly listened, asking only occasional questions and leaving the telling of the tale to Beregar. And to his everlasting relief and surprise, Beregar discovered that Glorfindel did not condemn him. Not once did he say: 'That was wrong,' or: 'You should not have done that.' All he had wanted to know was, whether the young man knew why he had acted like he had.

The answer had been rather humbling, for he had acted mostly on impulse (when he took the ring from Zaba), wishing to be his own master instead of serving the Ciryatur (when he put it on), and refusing to relinquish those dreams (when Tárion had confronted him in the courtyard - the last moment when he had been in control of himself).

'What a stupid reasons to do something stupid,' he recalled saying.

'Yes,' Glorfindel had replied. 'I know what you mean. I left Valinor impulsively once, wishing to be my own master, instead of a pupil of the Valar, and refusing to retrace my steps when we were warned that we would bring doom upon our own heads. It was not quite the same - if anything, it was more stupid, for we knew who it was that we followed: Fëanor, rebel and kinslayer. Madness in the footsteps of a madman.' After a brief pause he had added: 'None have ever hated me more for this folly than I have.'

'But you redeemed yourself.'

'I was granted the grace to do so.' The Elda's smile was pained and peaceful at the same time, the strangest smile Beregar had ever seen - but then, Glorfindel was the strangest person he had ever encountered: someone embodied twice yet completely at one with himself.

_I wish I could redeem myself._

'You will be granted that grace as well, if you truly desire to be at one with yourself,' Glorfindel replied, speaking Beregar's thought aloud.

Beregar had deliberated for a moment. What he had to tell was not much, and he would betray his own admiral if he told it. On the other hand: was it possible at all to commit any form of betrayal face to face with someone like Glorfindel?

'Perhaps I should tell you,' he had said tentatively, 'that the Ciryatur hates the Elves and sent me along with you and Gildor to spy on you. Not that there was much to discover. But he suspects your King of not being sincere about his motives for fighting the Enemy.'

At that, Glorfindel had looked pensive. 'I thank you for your trust,' he had said. Not much later he had left, leaving Beregar to doze off.

When the door opened again he woke. The unwholesome tension in his body was wearing off at last. Maybe the Elves had added something to the drinking cup beside his bed to help him relax. It had to be evening: the room where they had confined him was full of twilight and shadows.

And then one of those shadows moved towards him. A cloaked shape it was, the head covered with a large hood that obscured most of the wearer's face. All Beregar saw was a chin and a lower lip, but the light was too dim and the skin of the unknown visitor's face too much overshadowed by the hood to tell if the absence of a beard was natural, or the result of shaving. He did not hear any footsteps, but as the floor was carpeted and the figure's every movement bespoke stealth, his visitor could just as well be a Man as an Elf. The shape was not particularly tall, but perhaps it was stooping. It looked shapeless enough.

A hand emerged from the wide, dark cloak, making an inviting gesture. Beregar frowned. Was he supposed to follow this image of secrecy out of the room? One thing seemed certain: Gil-galad would hardly summon him for another round of questioning in such a peculiar way.

He hesitated. This could be a liberator of either kindred, elf or mortal. It could also be one of the Ciryatur's men trying to spirit him away for unpleasant purposes. As his attempt on the Elvenking was ultimately a stain on Tar Minastir's honour, he, the assailant had to be punished. Even if his head would remain on his shoulders, justice would still be severe. He had reasons to believe that it would be much harsher than Gil-galad's.

Once more the hand beckoned him, urging him to follow. If only he knew to what fate and end. Beregar rose from the bed to approach his visitor warily. 'Who are you?' he asked in a subdued voice.

Shaking his head, the other pointed at the door, and turning quickly he seemed to float towards it, too fast for Beregar to yank off the hood. For a few erratic heartbeats, the young man was poised between remaining in this room in fear and distrust, and grabbing his chance.

Freedom or death, he thought dramatically. He suppressed a snort - at whatever fate had in store for him, at himself, or both. And blown along on a gust of recklessness he followed the cloaked figure to the door.

***

**Tárion**

'No, Arto, I will not take Nárya,' Tárion said. Gil-galad had decided it would be better if the Ring of Fire and the Ring of Air were not to remain in the same place, however carefully warded the cabinet was that had held them both until now.

His lover eyed him anxiously, turning Nárya around between his thumb and forefinger. 'Have you had foresight of... some dark fate awaiting you, Valanya?'

He avoided the word 'death', but Tárion did not have to look inside Gil-galad's mind to know how large it loomed there. He wished he could reply with a wholehearted 'no', but the truth was more complicated. 'I would lie if I claimed to be free of premonitions, he replied, gently smoothing out a fold of his lover's surcoat. 'But it is not foresight. More like a shadow and a threat, but nothing as personal as seeing my own fall -'

A long sigh escaped the King.

'- or yours,' Tárion added pointedly, though the King had not voiced any fears regarding his own fate, leaving such concerns to his lover.

Gil-galad grunted softly. 'I suppose you have a right to worry, too,' he conceded.  
  
With a slight shake of his head, Tárion placed his right hand across his heart in such a way that it also partly covered the burn marks of the Balrog's whip smouldering underneath his clothes and mail. 'I shall not use the Ring of Fire to heal myself, though I know it can be done. Aware as I am that it must never be used as long as Sauron the Abhorred holds the One, I can withstand its lure. I have. Even so, do not entrust Nárya to me.'

At last, Gil-galad nodded in acceptance; if there was disappointment in his face, it was no more than a vanishing shadow. 'You will always withstand its temptation,' he said, more gravely now. 'Still, if you are loath to accept it regardless, I will not repeat my request.'

'Good,' Tárion said, and changing his tone he added: 'For if you would, I might start thinking you are offering me a ring to celebrate our betrothal.'

'If you do not watch your tongue, I may just do that, once all this is over! A silver ring, of course, according to the laws and customs of the Eldar that we are always so keen to honour...,' Gil-galad said mockingly while he gazed through the gleaming circle of gold. 'Who, then?'

'You know who,' said Tárion, resigned to the fact that even Gil-galad's banter had an edge today. He carried a heavier responsibility than anyone else in this endeavour. And his hatred of Sauron was much too personal for him to be able to relax.

Gil-galad kept procrastinating, as if it was still possible to decide otherwise. 'Do you think Círdan(2) will accept it? Fire is not his element.'

'That will make him even less tempted to wield it. He will accept. But you had better make haste. Sunrise is near.'

'Come then. Let us go. May Manwë keep us under the One.' The King clenched his fist around the Ring of Fire and laid his free hand on Tárion's mail-clad shoulder. They turned their backs to the cabinet holding Vilya, knowing that only Galadriel would be able to open it.

The riddle of Orgol's ring would have to remain unsolved. At present, there was nothing they could do about it.

***

**Galadriel**

She climbed the tallest tower, in the hour when the grey, predawn cold extinguishes Elbereth's lights. If the night's blazing, cloudless clarity - _menel aglar elenath!_ (1), she thought - was to be taken as a portent, the radiance of the stars would dispel the Deceiver's shadows. But this was the hope of one who looks up - neither foresight, nor ultimate trust. Her hand hovered over her chest, where Nenya hung on a chain underneath her gown, and she corrected herself. She did have _estel_ , or she would have let Glorfindel take the Ring of Water overseas to keep it out of Sauron's hands.

She knew better than before why she kept it, though even now it increased her longing for the sea: she could feel it tugging at her soul like the breeze tugged at her robes. But the land needed her; these shores wanted her. Here, she still had blessings to bestow. Nor did the realm on the other side of the Great Sea want anything that she could yield, except herself. Her life would be past there, a tale told in full; an end would come to her story, and though she would continue to exist she would, in a way, cease to be.

Too well she remembered why Fëanor had rebelled, why he had been right to say no - and why she was still unable to beg forgiveness for agreeing with him, much as she loathed his deeds.

Her gaze swept south- and eastward, to where she knew Sauron was awaiting the hosts of Elves and Men, though all she saw was a hint of blackness on distant hills. She wanted him to perish, as her most beloved brother had perished through him. Yet another reason why she would not depart overseas, even if she could. She would not turn her back to the ancient foe of her house. Though she would remain in Mithlond, her hatred would march with Gil-galad's armiy, along with her hopes - and those were forces to be reckoned with.

She turned her eyes towards the Númenorean camp beyond Mithlond, where the standard of the King was raised, showing the White Tree and the stars. Beside it hung the Ciryatur's own banner, the tall ship it bore only half visible. That it did not fly properly was merely for lack of wind, yet Galadriel was reminded of the shadowy patches in the forest of the man's mind: the part of this mortal that seemed to eschew the light. She knew that even the flawed could be instrumental in achieving victory - and who was entirely without flaws? - but even so she was concerned about the how.

Finally, she looked down at the courtyard, where the King's mount Nimroch awaited him, flanked by the horse of his Captain and soulmate. The members of the King's guard were waiting beside their mounts. Galadriel knew all of them, and one in particular. It was still possible to prevent her from riding.

She would not do so, though the dealing of death would affect her daughter's healing powers. No one had prevented her from leaving either, more than an age ago now, before the first rise of the Sun, whose early rays lit the eastern horizon with their flames now.

_My love_ , she spoke to faraway Celeborn, knowing that her thoughts would touch his mind, _I left our daughter freedom of choice to meet whatever fate awaits her. I trust that you and I will not come to regret this choice of mine._

But wisdom is hardest won at the shortest range, and her heart did flutter all the same.

***

**Celeborn**

Many leagues to the east, Elrond Half-elven, lord of the new refuge of Imladris, raised his head heavily from his desk. He must have fallen asleep poring over maps and reports, most likely after having read for the better part of the night. Celeborn watched him from the doorway. He came straight from his bed, refreshed by the fair vision in which he had walked this night. Never since the fall of Eregion and his and Elrond's retreat to this cloven valley had he been able to touch the face of his lady in a dream. This night had been the first time, and though Galadriel's expression had been grave and full of concern, the touch had given him hope.

No such reprieve had been granted the Peredhel, it seemed, for the countenance looking up from the desk was etched with fatigue. One cheek showed the indentation of the quill shaft on which it had rested. It remained visible longer than it would have on the face of a full elf.

Elrond rubbed his eyes, a familiar gesture that had often made Celeborn wonder how eyes must feel to make such a gesture necessary. A blink was all he ever needed to focus.

'You dreamed of another attack coming up?' Elrond asked.

Celeborn shook his head. 'My dream was hopeful. I came to cheer you up.'

Elrond straightened, stretching a little and suppressing a yawn. He pushed a stray lock of his dark hair away from his forehead. 'Did you see Sauron defeated?' he asked gravely, even cautiously.

'Reluctant to rejoice?' Celeborn said, half smiling - he had needed no special foresight to see this reaction coming. 'Nothing as clear as that; hope, not certainty. Still, something is about to change, and I have faith that it will be for the better.'

Elrond rose; the crease in his cheek was growing less now. He nodded pensively. 'I had a dream, too, though' - he gestured at the parchments strewn across his desk - 'mine may have been caused by the reports my head was resting on. Crebain from the West massing above the encampment of our besiegers. Riders leaving. Unrest among the ranks of our enemies. Something is afoot indeed. More, I could not see but I shall share your hope, my friend. If one of the wise among the Eldar tells you to be of good cheer, his words should not be dismissed.'

'That is kind of you.' Celeborn's smile broadened. Elrond _was_ kind, though at times he forgot to include himself in his own kindness. 'My wisdom also tells me that this siege will not last much longer.'

'Yes,' Elrond said. 'We had better prepare for another attack. But this time it will be ours.'

(TBC)

 

(1)Rough translation: the star-host's heavenly glory. Taken from the hymn A Elbereth that Frodo hears in Rivendell.  
(2)According to the History of Galadriel and Celebrían in Unfinished Tales, one marginal note to the narrative states that Gil-galad didn't entrust Círdan with the Ring of Fire until he set out for the War of the Last Alliance. Personally, though, I find this version more likely; for those involved this battle must have appeared no less decisive.

 


	40. Chapter Forty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Gildor**

They were going uphill again to crest the last of the ridges of the Emyn Beraid, and Gildor could still feel the sore spot where his wound had been; it was closed now, but not fully healed yet. A mile ago or so, he had stopped humming his old Valinorean walking song to concentrate on moving in such a way that the strain would be minimal. He could not remember that scaling hills had ever been less than pleasant, back home, except when he was a toddler with very short legs.

Not long after these thoughts had crossed his mind, a bareheaded Glorfindel, whose hair shone like metal in the pale sunlight, approached them in the company of one of Círdan's warriors. Suspecting that they had been found out despite their concealing helmets, Gildor turned towards his own companion, who had been marching doggedly at his side ever since they left the Havens, a day and a half ago. 'Do not speak,' he said warningly. As the craban flew, it was two hundred miles from Mithlond to the Sarn Ford and several dozens more by road. By evenfall, they would have covered about one tenth of that distance, but no more. They were still close enough to the Havens for his companion to be bundled back.

His companion merely gave an annoyed little shrug. Gildor could only hope for the best, yet he remained carefully optimistic. Glorfindel would not resort to force.

When the two riders reined in, he greeted them politely, both in Quenya and Sindarin, and asked: 'How did you know it was me, making up the rearguard of this impressive host?'

Glorfindel inclined his head in reply to Gildor's greeting. 'The scions of Finwë tend to stand out literally, especially when flanked by someone markedly shorter than they are. Not to mention the fact that your armour is incomplete; I can guess that you helped yourself to the leftovers - for the most part.' He surveyed Gildor's companion, who had to make do with a mail shirt and a pair of greaves - and the helmet, upon which his gaze came to rest. 'Though I would have appreciated it, Gildor, if you had asked me for that helm, instead of letting it disappear miraculously while I was away.'  
  
Gildor pulled a face. 'There was no helm left that fitted, and I did not think that you would mind, knowing that you do not need it.' Knowing how immaterial rehoused Elves could be he wondered why Glorfindel wore armour at all. When the other's face remained unreadable he conceded: 'Well, maybe apologies are in place, if you can refrain from looking beyond their face value.'

Glorfindel sighed, and maybe the corners of his mouth trembled a little. 'Do you think you can keep up the army's present pace, given your condition?' he asked, letting the matter of the helmet rest.

'If I had not felt up to it,' Gildor replied, a little more defensive now, 'I would have remained in bed.'

'I was simply asking a question,' Glorfindel said dryly. 'If your answer is that you can hold your own, who am I to doubt you? When I spoke to the healer last night she was less sure, but your body is yours to govern - as is your spirit, I may hope.' He cast a glance at the silent figure at Gildor's side. 'If you and your companion do not mind, I and my companion - he indicated the other rider - 'will join you for a while. Between the four of us, we can even share these horses.'

At that moment, Gildor's companion hissed softly.

Gildor took another and much better look at the second rider. As he wore a helm only his nose, mouth and chin were visible - but he realised that he had seen them before.

'Well met, Gildor Inglorion,' said Beregar. It came out a little hoarsely, and he cleared his throat.

'You?' Gildor asked, astonished, but without any lingering resentment. 'But I thought you were a prisoner in the royal palace!' He turned back to Glorfindel. ' Did you free him?'

'Not me. Gil-galad.' Now Glorfindel looked almost mischievous. 'He decided to put our friend to the test by entering his room in disguise. He needed to know if Beregar feared the Ciryatur's justice enough to take a chance. Obviously, he did.'

'I was ready to make a dash for freedom in case I saw no guards outside the door,' Beregar took over. 'I figured that if it was one of my fellow countrymen who came for me, the guards would have been disabled. But they were there, which meant my liberator had to be sent by your King. And then it turned out that it was your King.'

Gildor looked at the other Elf. 'But why bring him here?'

'It turns out that he is less safe in Círdan's vanguard than the King thought he would be,' was the answer. 'Some time ago, a liaison officer sent by the Ciryatur eyed him rather suspiciously. And as he is not to be delivered up -'

'As far as I am concerned, he is welcome,' Gildor interrupted him, stressing the word I and gazing pointedly at the person beside him.

Now it was Beregar's turn to take another and better look at Gildor's companion, and his mouth became a round gap. He recognised her.

'Yes, it is I!' Zaba said, her voice soft and threatening. 'Thief!'

Gildor cringed. Yesterday, it had taken him considerable time to find her, and even more time to talk her into accepting his company. But what had seemed a fine idea the day before - keeping an eye on Zaba to prevent her from committing some folly or other - now turned into something awkward.

'Zaba, I do not have the ring anymore,' Beregar told the girl.

'But you stole it.' Zaba paused. 'To make amends, you ought to let me ride, at the least.'

'You can ride pillion with me,' the young man replied mockingly. He was not going to make this easier either.

'Do you want a knife in your back?'

'No, for you will sit in front of me, and maybe -'

'Never!' she spat.

_This means trouble, Glorfindel._

_And who was it that took her along?_

Gildor was piqued. _You brought Beregar. Can he be completely relied on?_

_Perhaps not._ Glorfindel seemed weirdly amused. _But I guess we can rely on them to keep an eye on each other. Why do I have the impression that they trust each other less than we trust either of them?_ 'Zaba,' he said aloud, dismounting. 'You can ride my horse for a while. Should he bolt, for whatever reason, do not fear - though I doubt he will do so. But any horse that has carried me will always return when I call.'

Despite the helmet she wore, Gildor saw the girl's face fall. Glorfindel could not have warned her more clearly to refrain from carrying out some undesirable plan that involved stealing a horse. He turned towards Beregar. 'Can I borrow yours for a while? I bear you no ill will.' Yet he could not help adding, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice: 'I do hope that you do not bear me any ill will either, for thwarting your designs.'

Glorfindel groaned. But after a moment of blankness, a sudden grin appeared on Beregar's face - a little embarrassed, but the message had come across. 'Borrow my mound as long as you want.' Jumping down, he handed Gildor the reins. 'In this case, amends are wholly in place.'

 

***

**The Ciryatur**

They were marching through a landscape of gently rolling downs, with small brooks and copses of trees and shrubbery. It reminded the Ciryatur of Emerië, Númenor's sheep-country, except that there were no sheep here. There were no people either. Once, though, the country must have been populated, for here and there he saw deserted houses, seldom intact, scorched and ravaged fields, uprooted bushes, tree stumps and what looked like burned out pyres with black things sticking up that could be bones, though it was hard to be certain. If this was what the Dark Lord Sauron and his minions left behind, he could imagine why the Elves were none too happy to have them on their doorsteps.

He also understood why the provisions he had brought from Númenor were so popular with the Elvenking. In fact, if Tar Minastir had not come to their aid, the Eldar of Lindon would have been wiped out within scant years. Even now, Gil-galad had little left to rule. His pride and arrogance were innate flaws and not built on achievements. _Maybe he will fall._ If Gildor was to succeed to his crown - which seemed probable given his kinship to the heirless Gil-galad and the fact that they seemed to have left him behind in Mithlond - the matter of the Númenorean endeavours in Middle-earth would be easier to settle. It would take the new King some time to gain prestige. Or maybe a little help from Númenor, at a price.

At that point, hoof beats from behind announced the return of the liaison-officer Herendur. 'Did you find him?' the admiral asked after the customary exchange of greetings.

'Alas, no, my lord,' Herendur replied. 'But I did not find that lofty Elflord either. The Shipwright told me that he had left to see their King. He declared himself willing to convey my message. But as you instructed me not to alert the Elves to the fact that we are trying to find Beregar, I told him there was no message. Do you wish me to ride to the Elvenking now?'

The Ciryatur shook his head. He doubted that Glorfindel had really gone to Gil-galad, or that if he had, he had taken Beregar along. Someone must have noticed the previous liaison-officer's stare and drawn the conclusion that the young man had been recognised. Glorfindel had simply transferred him elsewhere. Provided it was Beregar, in that Elf-helm.

Well, he said to himself when Herendur had left on his next errand, if Beregar does indeed march with this army, I have more than a week left to find him. And even an Elf like Glorfindel cannot remain elusive all the time.

***

**Glorfindel**

Another night descended. While the four of them sat around their little campfire, Glorfindel involuntarily stared back into the dark; apparently, this was becoming a habit. The dark seemed to stare back at him with a thousand eyes, and few of them benevolent.

Dangling at the tail of the army was not how he would have preferred to approach the Dark Lord, or any foe, for that matter. The previous time he made up the rear of a large body of people on the move had been when Gondolin fell. His fëa remembered it but distantly, as through a long tunnel: the frenzied trampling of feet in flight, the foul, orange-red glare covering them all like blood, the roars of dragons and the screeches of crashing buildings, the mingling smells of fear and fire. And after that the laborious ascent to the cold, sunless heights of the Cirith Thoronath, carrying the badly injured and the small children, with a precipice on one side and an abyss on the other.

But there, the enemy had come from behind, leaping at him and Tárion and their fellow warriors while they covered the retreat of the Gondolindrim. Glorfindel touched his long hair; he had worn a metal cap in the Eagle's Pass, but this had not prevented the defeated Balrog from grabbing the locks that had slipped from underneath it to drag him into the chasm and to his death. After his rehousing in Aman he had cut those locks when the memories of that moment resurfaced - and earned himself many strange looks - but by the time his hair had grown long again the images had paled enough to keep the knife away.

Glorfindel closed his eyes to the empty, savaged landscape. In the starlight it looked ghostly, and he knew it was haunted indeed. If he listened with the ears of his fëa he could hear the lingering laments of the people, animals and trees that once lived and flourished here but were either dead ore enslaved now. It would be long before anyone could turn it into a place of life and happiness again - if they would succeed to in pushing back the Dark Lord from these lands.(1)

A hand touched his shoulder. 'You are looking grim, Glorfindel,' Gildor said softly. 'I guess that you feel it more keenly than I do. Still, even I can sense the evil of it. They don't appear to notice much, though. There are definitely advantages to being mortal.'

Opening his eyes, Glorfindel studied Beregar and Zaba, who were matching stares across the fire. Though the two had ceased to oppose each other vocally, they had by no means made peace. He sighed. _Why did you really take her along, Gildor? Keeping an eye on her is only part of the tale, I suspect, and perhaps not even the most important part._

_I also thought_ \- the younger elf hesitated for a moment. _I thought that seeing Sauron's orcs might convince her that we fight him for a reason?_

Glorfindel shook his head. _Gildor, Gildor... if what Beregar tells me is true, Zaba's father served the Deceiver. Countless mortals have seen orcs, and yet sided with the Enemy, as they did for the first time in the Battle of Innumerable Tears._ Another dark and distant memory.

_Zaba is too honest for that!_

A remarkably passionate defence. He could have foreseen that Gildor would remain optimistic - Finrod Felagund also stubbornly believed in the good sides of Men, and as a child, Gildor had absorbed his grandsire's bright philosophies like a sponge.

Glorfindel rose. The shadow in his mind had taken on a more definite shape, and he knew now what bothered him.

'Where are you going?' the other Elf asked.

'To the King,' Glorfindel replied. 'To warn him.' _Do you think you can keep those two in check?_

Of course I can! 'Warn him against what?'

'Against the evil I sense on our flanks. Would it be so strange if the Dark Lord were trying to ring us about?'

 

(TBC)

(1)It would take about an age: it wasn't until Third Age 1600 that hobbits founded the Shire - and that's where we are here.

 

 


	41. Chapter Forty-one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Gil-galad**

'They are on this side of the river - what is it called again, Branduin?' The Ciryatur appeared to take the announcement as a personal insult. 'Are you certain?' He suppressed a yawn; when Gil-galad's messenger arrived he had probably been asleep.

'I am,' the King replied.

It was almost midnight. Glorfindel's premonitions had turned out to be correct: his scouts had sighted the _yrch_ , as always operating under the cover of darkness, creeping towards them from positions Northeast and Southwest of the Sarn Ford. If they had not been detected, they would have surrounded the army hours before the coming of dawn would force the foul creatures into hiding against the Sun. Now, with some luck and a somewhat more co-operative attitude from the Númenorean, the troops on the wings could try to halt their advance, making it impossible for the foe to ring them in.

'If you attack them on the western flank,' the King went on, 'we shall take care of the other one.'

'We do not see quite as well in the dark as the Elves do,' the Ciryatur objected. 'Or the Orcs, for that matter.' The man was simply unsurpassed when it came to making insinuations. Gil-galad recognised the cough following this remark as Tárion's, but he knew that exchanging looks was not advisable.  
  
'I think, my lord,' said the officer who accompanied the Ciryatur, 'that we have enough torches to light our way. And if not, well - the enemies cut down more trees than they needed for their fires, and the; wood is lying all about. Most of it is not resinous, but it will probably do well enough for our present purpose.'

Gil-galad gave him an encouraging smile. Some mortals were pleasant to work with, he reminded himself. 'Our troops will use torches, too. Not all our mounts possess the eye of the Eldar.' Many horses of Lindon were descended from the animals that Tar Aldarion had shipped from his island many _yeni_ ago as presents to the Elves; the horses of Númenor were as famed as its archers.

'Very well then,' the Ciryatur said, nodding vaguely at the tent pole between his subordinate and the King.

After the details had been discussed and the orders dispatched, the Númenoreans left. Gil-galad turned to the captain of his guard. 'Well...' he said, pulling a face.

'Orcs indeed!' Tárion replied. 'What do you say, shall we ride?'

The King took his spear Aeglos and touched the blade; he could feel the metal vibrate under his fingertips. Like the Three Elven Rings, the spear was made by Celebrimbor son of Fëanor, but Gil-galad himself had also had a hand in its forging, wielding the hammer for the last strokes and sealing the work with a spell of his own. The spear was aware of the name of Sauron and knew that the Dark Lord was its destiny. One day, Aeglos would hit home - if it was the last thing the weapon would do in this world.

'Not yet - but we will stand by,' Gil-galad replied, addressing Aeglos as well as Tárion. He put the spear aside. 'Or do you foresee that the Ciryatur riding to the attack? If he does, then how could we stay behind?'

'I doubt it. Not that I take him for craven, but he seemed eager to continue his... beauty sleep. I suppose that being mortal, he needs it. So let us not be too harsh on him.'

'You are remarkably unforgiving, Valanya.'

'I still resent him for having upset you with his "catamite".' But Tárion was smiling faintly, Gil-galad saw.

'I think I shall tell Círdan,' he said, 'to reinforce his left flank. The country is more open to that side, so our enemies will probably advance faster there in an attempt to surround us and attack our rear.'

'They may be more numerous on the opposite flank.' Tárion spread his hands. 'But you are the strategist, Arto.'

'Sometimes,' Gil-galad told him, 'one has to gamble.'

***

**Beregar**

When the King's message reached the rearguard, the two horses missing from Círdan's company were commanded back. 'The lord Shipwright needs his cavalry complete,' said the Sindarin Elf who relayed the orders to them.

'Understood,' Glorfindel nodded courteously, and the messenger left.

When they were alone again, the four of them exchanged glances. It hardly came as a surprise that Zaba was the first to raise her voice. 'I will not gallop in the dark in the company of Elvish horsemen. I do not fear those Orcs, but neither am I a fool, and I was not raised to be a rider.'

'Who suggested you were afraid?' Beregar said mockingly. 'Not I. Especially not as I am about to make the same objection. Like every Númenorean I can ride, but I never had any aspirations to be a horseman.' That was only half-true. His family had been too poor to afford more than a nag to pull the fish cart to the marketplace, and their boat had rocked as pleasantly on the waves outside Romenna as any horseback did on the hard roads. If he had envied the proud lords it had not been because of their great destriers.

_You could have become a proud lord yourself if you had used the ring to your advantage_ , a voice suggested at the back of his mind. _You would do better now if you still had it in your possession..._ The voice was that of a disappointed parent, but Beregar knew that it lied. There was no way he could ever have used the ring to his own advantage. On the contrary: the ring had used him in its attempt to rid its Master of his greatest enemy, the High King of the Noldor of Middle-earth. The young sailor Beregar had been no more than a disposable tool.  
  
He listened to the voice with cold detachment; it had lost its lure. Yet he wondered why it was so clear. Beregar looked over his shoulder, his heart suddenly racing as if the Dark Lord's shadow could appear behind him any moment now. But peering into the night with stinging eyes he saw nothing but the stark outlines of trees and shrubs looking eerie in the light of their small campfire.

Calm down, he told himself. You are not going to panic. 'You two take the horses,' he said to the elves. 'We can always join the pedestrians.' He gestured at the foot soldiers aligning themselves behind their captains and a standard-bearer carrying the Shipwright's device.

Glorfindel and Gildor exchanged a look, as if they expected the silly mortals to be at each other's throats the moment they would be alone. Beregar was about to tell them that neither he nor Zaba needed a guardian when his mind seemed to catch a vague warning to watch out for the girl.

_Of course!_ he thought, hoping that his reply would find its destination.

Glorfindel gazed at him for an instant; then he nodded at Gildor and they left, looking back only once before they vanished from mortal sight.

'Shall we join the ranks?' Beregar said to the girl. 'If I understood the instructions, correctly, we are supposed to spread eastward. So let us do some spreading.' When Zaba cast him a foul look he added: 'It is not as if you will be marching with your detested Númenoreans.'

'I see at least one of them here,' she said, remaining where she was.

'How horrible.' Beregar pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. 'You saw what the enemy did to the country that we have just crossed. Did my people also leave the charred remains of children behind, in addition to cutting down trees and shooting animals?' He was convinced they had not; no Númenorean worthy of that name would ever immolate a child of the One.(1)

When Zaba remained silent he asked: 'You do not like to admit that your beloved father accepted a ring from someone whose minions commit such atrocities, do you?'

She still did not speak, staring at the Elvish warriors. They were almost ready to march now.  
  
'That ring is evil,' Beregar insisted. You know what it made me do -'

Now Zaba did react, and savagely, too: 'Do not blame an object for your own iniquities! The ring is innocent. My father never used it to evil ends. Never!!'

How do you know? Beregar would like to ask. But that would probably only make her shout harder, and several Elves were already staring at them. Subduing his voice he said, meaning less than half of it: 'Perhaps you are right about me. Perhaps it would not affect you - or your father - the way it affected me, if you know its secret.' His next words were more sincere. 'I am sorry that I took it from you.' As he had every reason to be.

The Elvish troops set into motion. If they did not join them now, the two of them would be left behind in the dark beside a dying fire, with Orcs roaming about somewhere in the vicinity.

'Zaba, I mean it,' Beregar heard himself add. He took a deep breath, for this was important. 'What was the secret? You can safely tell me now. The ring was ripped from my finger' - poor, mortal Beregar, maltreated by a big, bad Elvish captain! - 'I cannot abuse the knowledge now, can I?'

With brisk movements, Zaba started to walk towards the marching Elves. If this was an answer, it could either mean that she refused to tell him, or that she had lied and that the ring had no secret. Well, he would never know now. Resigned to this fact, Beregar followed her.

Then, unexpectedly, she did speak. Her voice was soft and young, and it sounded vulnerable and alone, reminding Beregar of the sweetness of their kiss before the gates of Mithlond. Under any other circumstances...

'The man who gave my father the ring,' she said under her breath, 'one of Sauron's great servants, who had been entrusted a ring of his own, told him that it could make him invisible when he put it on.'

'But how is this possible?' Beregar said immediately, greatly astonished. 'I remained visible while it was on my finger. So did Orgol.'

Without looking at him she replied: 'But neither of you had a right to wear it, and the ring knows to whom it belongs.'

He could not help himself. 'Do you have it? Did you take it back?' he asked, whispering now with regard to the Elves.

They had reached Círdan's warriors and stepped into line at the rear. Whether Zaba had heard his question or not, she did not reply. But her last words were true enough, Beregar reflected. That ring knew to whom it belonged.  
  
***

**Celebrían**

The King and his guard were sitting their horses in the dead of night, a host of warriors arranged behind them. Across the fairly level ground, away to the east, they could see vague shapes move around, like dancers stepping out of time. A soft, shimmering light gleamed beyond one knoll, but its source was invisible. The noises of battle were a distant, unstructured din, occasionally pierced by high-pitched screams. Though they were able to discern their own tall warriors from the greater numbers of short, misshapen Orcs, it was hard to see which party was gaining the upper hand, if any.

Celebrían wished that experience had prepared her for this situation: too many stories and songs omitted to mention that a considerable part of war consisted of waiting. They would only come into action if the enemy threatened to break through. She scolded herself for not even knowing what she wished most: that the _yrch_ would be beaten back, or that the signal to advance would sound and they would charge. Searching the faces of the guards nearest to her she did not see her own unrest mirrored there. They were seasoned warriors; many of them had served in the War of Wrath that had ended the First Age, and before that in the Wars of Beleriand. Perhaps they had actually spent more time waiting for their foes than fighting them.

'Do not fret overmuch,' she heard someone say. It was Argon, the Captain's second-in-command, who was looking back at her. Celebrían saw that her horse had stepped out of line, ears flattened; the animal must have sensed her unrest. Though Argon was the only one who spoke, to judge by the faces turned towards her the horse's movements had not only drawn his attention.

Two of the eyes resting on her belonged to the Captain. Was it a challenge she read in them? Was he determined to find fault with her? If that were the case, he would no doubt succeed - who was infallible? - but it would not be now, before anything had happened. She bent forward to whisper some soothing words into the animal's ears and gently nudged it back to its place again.

Looking up and into the distance again, she thought the scene had changed. There seemed to be fewer fighters now, and above all, fewer Orcs. Could that mean what she thought it meant?

 

 

 

(TBC)

1)Beregar couldn't foresee that his people would one day adopt the practice of human sacrifice.  


 

 

 


	42. Chapter Forty-two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Gildor**

Robbed of his horse by a spear thrust, Gildor continued to fight on foot, trying to stay alive by slaying the orcs that were after his death. The reality of the foul creatures surpassed his wildest imaginings of vileness and ugliness. To hack at the crooked limbs, to plunge his blade into the hideous bodies, to see the dark blood gush from the wounds, to hear the screams - and sometimes a crunching sound when the blade, hitting with force, broke or shattered a bone - he had thought it would be disgusting or horrible, but it was not so. It felt strangely natural. And if he had been afraid at first, he soon forgot to be so in the frenzy of fighting.

Swinging his sword, feeling it connect, wrenching it free, Gildor wondered why this killing did not disturb him more. He vaguely recalled people discussing, back in Valinor, whether all Orcs were descended from tortured, disfigured Quendi, or whether the Black Foe had merely captured a number of Elves at the Waters of Awakening to dissect them and model his fighting machines on them. No Elf had ever returned from the Pits of Utumno to tell the true tale, and not even the Powers knew all there was to know. But if these Orcs were naught but beasts roughly shaped like Eru's children, if their speech was merely reeling off texts set in them by Morgoth(1), then why did he feel so satisfied at each kill?

There was so little time to reflect that his thoughts came in bits and pieces, sometimes repeating or overlapping or looping back to where they had begun. But there was a moment when one of the orcs looked straight back at Gildor while he pierced it with his blade, and at that moment he saw understanding taking the place of hatred in its eyes, just before they were extinguished.

Had it been recognition? Had he freed the soul of a Child of Eru from its prison of a body; could it be a work of mercy to kill Orcs? This was such a shocking idea that Gildor froze for an instant. Too late he saw the spear that shot towards him. If another blade had not blocked it in the nick of time, his own soul would have been ripped from his body and fled to Mandos.  
  
'Concentrate on what you do!' he heard Glorfindel bellow from atop his horse. The orc whirled, recognising his new foe as the more dangerous of them. The spear struck again, going straight through Glorfindel's mail into his flank...

... or would have, if Glorfindel's form had not blurred for an instant, as if he became incorporeal for the split heartbeat it would have taken for the spear-tip to pierce his flesh. The weapon slid out of the hole it had made in the mail shirt. The wielder froze in mid-movement, and Glorfindel rode him down. His body seemed to remain slightly out of focus, as if his fëa trailed the memory of his hröa along, yet he was more clearly visible than any other warrior on the battlefield, for he radiated the soft sheen of the rehoused whose selfless deeds have greatly enhanced their spiritual power(2), and his head, the golden hair tied back, shone like a sun soaring past in the night.

Gildor took a deep breath. He had suspected that Glorfindel was invulnerable to physical danger, but now that it appeared to be true, it was more unnerving than he would have thought.

Then he recovered. 'Thank you!' he shouted, turning to liberate the next Orc from his miserable existence.

By the time he began to feel tired and sore, while the weight of his sword increased with every stroke, the last of their enemies turned tail and fled. Gildor stared after them, trying to assess his findings and wondering whether it was mere battle frenzy that had made him think killing Orcs was as good for the slain as for the slayer.

'It is over,' Glorfindel said, emerging out of thin air to Gildor's right - maybe literally. He was not only unscathed, but also unruffled. All the other warriors within sight, even those who were not injured, bore at least some evidence of having fought in a battle: torn surcoats, damaged shields, spatters of orc blood on their armour. In Glorfindel's case, the only blood seemed to be on his blade. His aura had dimmed and he almost looked his ordinary self again - except that there was nothing ordinary about him.  
  
Glorfindel held out a hand. 'Want a ride?' he asked. 'Your poor horse will never bear you again, I fear. His voice was unchanged, like his fair face - and suddenly Gildor smiled, despite the loss of his mount. They had driven back the Orcs, and Glorfindel would remain Glorfindel in all that was essential, no matter what befell.

Grabbing the outstretched hand he swung himself on the horse.

***

**Celebrían**

'They will not break through,' someone said in a low voice; it took her a few moments to realise that it was the King himself who had spoken. The words rippled outward, spreading across the body of his guards and through the ranks of warriors that were aligned behind them. It was more than a sigh, less than a gust of wind. Even so, they stood by until the enemy forces were routed and the first messengers came hurrying back to report the estimated numbers of casualties, of wounded and of foes slain. Only then, the guards were ordered to dismount.

While the others left with Argon, Celebrían stayed behind. At the Captain's raised eyebrow she said: 'I am a Healer, and I hear there are injuries to be treated.'

She had expected the retort, delivered in an almost scathing tone: 'Then perhaps you had better join their ranks from now on, my lady?' What she had not expected was that it would come from Gil-galad.

Nor could she have predicted the Captain's reply: 'Allow me to disagree, lord. I need your guard complete - and so do you.' Without waiting for Gil-galad's reaction he turned to Celebrían. 'You have leave to spend the rest of the night tending the wounded, but you will report back to me at daybreak, or as soon as you are done.'

Or done in, by fatigue? _You do not know me. Neither of you does._ 'At your orders, Captain.' With a curt nod she rode away, giving Gil-galad no more than a cursory glance. _Are you still certain that you want to die for him?_ she found herself wondering while she rode away.

***

**Tárion**

'You cannot make Celebrían abandon her present course by being unpleasant to her,' Tárion told the King when she had left. 'And what would you propose to do if she did change her mind, send her back to the Havens? Do you have an escort to spare? But it takes more than a snide remark to make her change her mind; I can read it in her.'

'Gut reaction,' Gil-galad said, a little ruefully. 'I fear I am not entirely reconciled to her presence. But I stand corrected. There is no way back for her, now that she has committed herself, and my - our only consolation if we fail, is that we probably will not live another day to face her mother.'

Indeed. Tárion wondered what Galadriel would do if Sauron the Abhorred were to be victorious. Would she make a last stand in Mithlond, or sail West and risk being shipwrecked? As the only surviving leader of the Noldorin rebellion, the lady was still banned from returning to the Blessed Realm, and he remembered that none of the ships that his father Turgon had sent across Belegaer in the First Age had withstood the wrath of Ossë and Uinen. And the memory of all Powers, both the greater and the lesser ones, was as long as Eä.

Suddenly he heard Gil-galad chuckle. 'What was I thinking, Valanya? If anything can influence her, it may be the realisation that the injured need her healing hands more than I need her fighting capacities. You did it on purpose, did you not?'

'Partly,' Tárion admitted, though he suspected that Galadriel's daughter was very well able to see through his motives for giving her leave to go. 'But Celebrían's hands are also wise in the way of weapons, Arto - or I would not have allowed her to fill the empty place in your guard.'

Gil-galad raised his eyebrows, but before he could comment on this Tárion heard his voice speak words that he had not planned to say: 'She will have a role to fulfil yet before the coming battle will be over.' And though he did not know whence those words came and it was only the second time in his life such a thing happened to him, he could easily give it a name.

After a silence, the King asked quietly: 'And did your foresight tell you, in what way?'

Tárion shook his head. 'I cannot tell you anything above what just spilled out of my mouth. But we had better hope that Celebrían will not decide to stay with the Healers, or so it seems to me.'

'She will be tired, if she stays up all night to tend the wounded.'

'Undoubtedly. But as we are close to the Sarn Ford, we will not march far, will we? Nor does it seem likely that the great battle will take place tomorrow.'

Even as he said it and saw Gil-galad nod, Tárion heard the rapid pounding of hooves, and looking he saw two Númenorean horsemen approach from the Southwest, one holding a torch aloft. They were riding at speed through the Elvish encampment, and many a warrior scrambled to his feet to draw near and take a closer look.

The riders held their heads high. Apparently the Ciryatur's troops had been successful on the other flank.

***

**Beregar**

Unless his sense of time was affected, which could very well be the case in the dead of night in a strange country among people of a strange race, the enemy was closer by than he had expected. Beregar wondered how he would acquit himself; he had never swung a blade in a fight where no quarter would be given. He wondered how good Zaba would prove to be, and whether he would be able to protect her, if necessary. He tried not to think of the possibility that she would have to safe his life. That it could be fear he felt in the pit of his stomach was something that he was not quite ready to accept.

And then the Orcs were upon them, growling, snarling and yelling in a way that made him want to stop his ears - but as he had no hands free this was impossible. Had they ever told him that he would have to contend with horrible, alien noises as well as sharp weapons? Beregar could not remember, but there was no time left to think: the moment when his sword connected jarringly with something equally hard he was reduced to his body and the will to survive.

At first the world became a blur, a chaos of sound and motion, then it became a painful jumble of shocks and blows, twists and turns, while the blade in his fist seemed to grow heavier and heavier and his muscles cried for a respite he could not grant them. He knew that Zaba was beside him, and once he thought he heard her shout, but he failed to understand how he could have thought it was possible to keep an eye on her. It was difficult enough to see ahead with the sweat pricking in his eyes; or at least, he hoped it was only sweat and not also blood.

Vaguely, he noticed that his calf hurt and that he had lost his helmet, but he had no time to dwell on it: the foes kept surging towards them, a wave of oversized black, bloodthirsty insects; at least, they seemed to have more arms than he did, or maybe it was their numbers. But insects were not supposed to have legs that ended in hooves. As soon as this thought crossed his half-dazed mind, Beregar realised the legs were attached to horses. There had not been riders before; the Enemy must have kept them in reserve.

Except that these could not be enemy troops, for the orcs attacked them and they fought back.

Beregar found a shield on the ground, and picking it up he ducked behind it for a while to regain his breath and his ability to think straight. Númenoreans? Elves? In the gloom, it was difficult to make out which. He watched the horsemen with detached amazement, as if he was observing the fray from a safe distance. His countrymen were supposed to be on the other flank, while Círdan's riders could not have come from behind the lines - or could they? And why did there seem to be so few of them?

There was a lull in the fighting, or else it was moving away from him, which probably meant that the Orcs were being driven back. It occurred to him that he ought to join the pursuit, and for that he needed his helm. It had rolled a few feet away. Stretching out his arm to pick it up, he glanced around to find Zaba. When he could not see her anywhere he wondered with a peculiar, sinking feeling if she had been slain. Or had she moved on to rout the orcs? Then he remembered what she had told him about the secret of her father's ring, mere moments before they joined the Elvish ranks.

Could it be that she had made herself invisible? Nonsense. He raised the helm to his head.

'That is no Elf!' a voice cried, close by and accompanied by the heavy thuds of hooves. Definitely a mortal, quite harsh - and a little hoarse as well. It is he!'

'Pillar of Heaven, you are right, Eremir!' shouted another voice - one he knew from the streets of Romenna. 'It is him - Beregar!' Realising that they were up to no good he began to scramble away before the man added: 'We can take him. His Elvish friends are dead or chasing orcs. Eremir! Cut off his escape route!'

(TBC)

  
1)For various theories on the origins of Orcs not given in The Silmarillion, see HoMe 10, Myths Transformed, VIII and IX.  
2)HoMe 12, Last Writings, XIII. Another reference to Glorfindel's duel with the Balrog, which saved the lives of many fugitives of Gondolin, including Eärendil's.

 

 


	43. Chapter Forty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**The Ciryatur**

The remaining orcs had retreated. If this was all the enemy could achieve... But tempting though it was to think so, the Ciryatur knew better. Perhaps the average orc withstood a blade no better than a wheat stalk withstood the scythe, but not a tenth of them had been reaped yet. Moreover, not all Sauron's ranks consisted of orcs. He did not doubt that next time they would face Men.  
  
Our own race, the Ciryatur mused. Whatever their origins - and the idea that they were bred from Elves was very appealing - Orcs were twisted and hideous to look at, not to mention that they were savage beasts that ate everything that moved including their own kind. One could shed their dark blood, dwell on it for a moment, and not think twice about it. But Men, even lesser Men...

What had prompted so many his own kind to rally behind this Deceiver, as the Elves called him? Nothing but deceit? Surely it took more than a convincing lie or even a tempting offer before a man in his right mind would consent to fight alongside those foul creatures? The Ciryatur knew what would tempt him: a realm of his own, a crown and the power and means to fulfil his desires whenever they took hold of him. Health and a long life -

\- _the life of the Eldar_. He laughed harshly at the impossible, yet irrepressible thought. His aide, bent over what the admiral suspected was his personal diary, looked up abruptly, but the admiral shook his head. Outside the pavilion, the noises and shouts following this night's upheaval were gradually dying down, now that the orcs were beaten back

He wondered if those were hoof beats, in the distance.

It was unlikely that Sauron had offered all his mortal followers glittering prizes. Only the leaders would fall for that; the rank and file would need different incitements. Men who fought alongside orcs must have more to win than to loose. Which probably meant that they had never had much to begin with. Which, in its turn, meant that the Elves would fight an army of mortal have-nots with the help of an army of mortal haves - the Númenoreans.

It seemed that noble motives had little to do with this war.

Funny. But this time the Ciryatur merely smiled avoiding to draw his aide's attention again. Once more, he listened to the noises outside. Definitely the pounding of hooves. The horses - two, he thought - were approaching rapidly. He waited

`My lord!' he heard the officer Herendur cry even before the hoof beats stopped. 'We have him!'

The aide jumped up. This time, the Ciryatur was prepared to satisfy his curiosity. 'I suspect that Herendur is referring to Beregar,' he explained. 'I sent some riders to the eastern flank, because I suspected him to be hiding among the Elves. Apparently, I was right.'

A hand threw aside the flap covering the entrance to the pavilion. Herendur and one of his fellow horsemen stepped inside, dragging along Beregar. They had gagged him and tied his hands to his back, and he hung between them like a rag, limp and unresisting.

***

**Glorfindel**

The darkness made their search more difficult than it would have been by day, but he would not postpone it, and neither would Gildor.

'Yes, those two did join us,' several of Círdan's foot soldiers had answered in reply to their query, 'but once the fighting started, we paid no more heed to them.'

Glorfindel lifted his torch. They had covered most of the battleground by now, a cruel enough task, as not all the Elves had survived and their sightless eyes brought too many past horrors to the surface. None of the slain who wore Elvish armour were mortals, though.

'I do not understand this,' he heard Gildor mutter. When Glorfindel turned around the younger Elf continued: 'Unless they deserted together. True love in times of war, how -' He fell silent rather abruptly, as if something bothered him.

Glorfindel chose to ascribe it to the aftermath of the fighting. Gildor's first battle. His own first battle in the rebuilt house of his fëa. A house that, in the heat of battle, seemed to have done his thinking for him, refusing to be heroically wounded or slain merely to prove the courage of its dweller. He smiled briefly - apparently his body was more practical than his soul, knowing that it would serve its purpose better if it remained in one part.

'What do you think, Glorfindel?' he heard Gildor say.

He abandoned that trail of thought. 'You may have a point, Gildor.' There was a possibility that Beregar and Zaba had fled, together or each apart. He froze. What was that? He knelt to inspect the turf at his feet. Hoof prints?

Definitely. But perhaps they belonged to their own horses. He rose, lifting his torch. 'Gildor, did we pass by this spot when we left to join Círdan's riders?' All he knew was that he had not been too attentive at the moment, gazing ahead rather than looking around or down.

'No, we did not,' replied Gildor, joining him. 'I would surely remember that dolphin-shaped piece of rock, if I had come across it before.'

Glorfindel did not immediately recognise the dolphin. But Gildor was the kind of person who saw a shape in the thinnest wisp of cloud, and he seemed certain enough.

'Orcs do not ride,' he said pensively, kneeling. 'And there were no mortal riders among the troops that attacked us tonight.'

'Are you suggesting they were made by Númenoreans?' Gildor asked. 'Were they not supposed to fight on the other flank? Then what were they doing here?' When Glorfindel did not immediately reply he went on: 'Do you think that they were after Beregar? I remember you saying that one of their liaison-officers may have recognised him.'

Glorfindel straightened. 'I did, and yes, this is indeed what I think. Let us look further. If we find footprints close to the horses, and perhaps signs of a struggle, it could imply...'

... that Beregar was captured!' Gildor said almost enthusiastically, as if he had successfully solved an abstract riddle presented by one of his teachers in Aman. Then he sobered. 'To be punished by his admiral?'

Most likely. And if fellow Númenoreans had indeed abducted Beregar, the Ciryatur would soon know for certain that the Elves had blatantly ignored his request that the young man be tried and judged in Númenor.

I should have left him in Mithlond, Glorfindel thought. Regardless of what Gil-galad said about keeping an eye on him. For all I know they may have killed him. But this was not something he would say aloud; he refused to incriminate the Númenoreans without further proof.

Trotting to his horse Gildor cried: 'Let us ride to the Númenorean camp! Hurry, Glorfindel!'

'And tell them what?' Glorfindel asked. 'It seems to me that we had better seek out the High King first. And before we ride anywhere at all, I suggest that we search for evidence to confirm our suspicions.'

Gildor halted and nodded reluctantly. 'You are right, we had better look further first. Perhaps - perhaps they took Zaba as well?' Then, gazing into the night, he added thoughtfully: 'If we find our evidence, but we are unable to determine if these fellows abducted one or two persons...'

'Yes?' Glorfindel said.

'You go to Gil-galad,' Gildor finished in a remarkably assured voice, 'while I will search for the girl. After all, I am responsible for bringing her along.' He swallowed audibly. 'I bet there are stray orcs roaming about. If anything bad befalls her... if I find her corpse... the blame will be mine.'

'Are you not jumping from conclusion to conclusion now?'

'Jumping a river stone by stone will eventually take you across,' Gildor retorted.

Obviously, not all of his teachers' lessons had come across. _What if the stones lead nowhere and you drown midstream?_ Glorfindel thought. 'Gildor,' he began, about to mention the possibility that Zaba had left them by choice. But his companion threw him such a forbidding look that he decided silence was golden.

He wondered, though if it was merely his sense of responsibility that sent Gildor chasing after Zaba.

***

**Beregar**

'Where is Minohtar?? asked the Ciryatur. 'I heard only two horses.' He motioned for Eremir and Herendur to force Beregar to his knees. Beregar felt terrible. The gag was tied too tightly around his face, his head was pounding, and his calf hurt enough to make him consider toppling over, but they had already seen that he was conscious.

'I have brought his body,' Eremir replied hesitantly. 'He took an arrow in the eye and dropped from the saddle. His horse bolted.'

The Ciryatur sighed, shaking his head. 'A pity. See to it that he is properly buried. Herendur, you wait outside my pavilion until I give you leave to retire.'

The two cavalry officers bowed and departed. The Ciryatur turned to the kneeling sailor. When Beregar kept his head down, it was jerked up painfully by the hair. 'Look at me!' the admiral said coldly.

So Beregar looked. To his own surprise, he did not flinch. He even had a moment of lucidity. For the first time, it struck him that the man was ageing, the skin directly above the upper lip showing the thin lines that Beregar remembered from his own grandmother?s face. They made the mouth look smaller, and he knew it would look smaller still in death.

Not that he would ever see the admiral dead, his own death being more likely to precede the old man?s now.

'Who let you out of that room in the Elvenking?s palace?' the Ciryatur demanded to know, one hand still holding Beregar?s hair, while the other cut away the gag.

'I could not see his face, my lord,' Beregar replied truthfully. 'It was getting dark, and it remained hidden beneath his hood.' He wished he could rub his temples.

'But it was an Elf.' Not a question.

'I suppose it was,' Beregar admitted. 'If it had been one of us, he would hardly have left me in Glorfindel's care.' _Us_ , he thought. Somehow, it sounded peculiar, as if there was a gap between his own mortality - his own humanity? - and the old man's that nothing could bridge.

The Ciryatur yanked his head backwards. 'You will restrict yourself to answering my questions!'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Tell me what happened when you put that ring on your finger.'

Beregar wondered why the interrogation took this particular turn, but not for long. Someone had stolen the ring from the Elvenking?s quarters, and he had asked himself often enough if it was Zaba - and what had happened to her? - who had taken it. But she was not the only suspect. He hesitated. What harm could it do if he told the truth? Could he speak freely?

'Answer me!' the Ciryatur snapped.

'I... I heard a voice. Talking inside my mind, suggesting to me that I kill the Elvenking.' Beregar shivered.

'I know that. You claimed the same thing in Mithlond. But whose voice do you say it was?'

'The voice of the Dark Lord whose armies we will face soon at the Sarn Ford.' Was that a sharp intake of breath, behind him? But there was no one behind him. Unless the gasp had been outside the tent.

The Ciryatur had not noticed anything, but then, he was getting old, and old men were often hard of hearing. He let go of Beregar's hair at last and rubbed his hands above the brazier in the centre of the pavilion. Rubbing his hands... am I co-operating that well? the young man wondered with some bitterness. His gaze wandered towards the large, carved trunk on one side of the pavilion, at the foot of the Ciryatur's elaborate field-bed. It was almost the size of a coffin.

'How do you know it was the Dark Lord?'

Yes, how had he known? His headache prevented him from thinking clearly. He tried to shrug and was reminded forcefully of his bonds. 'I just did.'

'Because the Elves told you it was he.'

Again, not a question, but he decided to reply as if it were. 'They did not, my lord. I knew that it was the one whom they name Sauron. He told me so. He tempted me into doing something that I would never have done otherwise.'

'You lie!' The Ciryatur seemed about to strike him, but his arm dropped back to his side.

'I do not, my lord.' _If you stole the ring and plan to put it on your finger, you will do so knowing to whom you expose yourself, and not without warning._

His brow furrowed, the Ciryatur studied Beregar's face. 'If it was Sauron, did you ask him why he attacked the Elves and overran Eriador?'

'I do not remember,' Beregar heard himself answer. 'I was - confused. I still am.'

'You do remember that you were my spy, I may hope? This was the thing that you were supposed to try and find out.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Then make sure that you remember the rest as well.' The Ciryatur's smile was thin and decidedly unpleasant, but his next words seemed to belie his expression. 'For if you do and it proves useful, there may be something in it for you, too, young Beregar.' Acquittal, his eyes suggested. Or no trial at all.

***

**Gildor**

Eventually, they had discovered evidence of a struggle, but nothing indicated that more than one person had been taken captive. ?I will find her,? Gildor had declared once more, and so he would, whether Glorfindel liked it or not. But his companion had voiced no more objections.

Once Glorfindel was on his way to Gil-galad, Gildor mounted his own horse. He had come across several interesting pieces of evidence he had not bothered to report to his companion. A single set of small footprints not made by orc boots. And beyond the stretch of rocky ground where he had lost them, another set of prints, this one made by horseshoes. They ran northward from the battle-field, but following them he noticed that they swerved back west to join a broader track pointing straight towards the Númenorean camp.

He joined it in his turn, using the reddish glow of the distant camp fires as a beacon, just like the riders who preceded him must have done. As it was a camp of mortals, he could approach more closely on horseback than would have been the case if it had been Elvish, but at some point he decided it would be safer to leave his horse among the bushes and proceed on foot. He even went as far as removing his armour to be able to move more stealthily.

Asleep or not, most of the Númenoreans were in their tents, and he took care to avoid the light cast by the fires. Though a number of men saw him pass by at a distance - and Gildor took care to raise his hand in greeting - none halted his progress. Eventually he reached the great pavilion in the middle of the camp that had to be the Ciryatur's.

When it came within full sight, Gildor discovered that he was not the only one able to use stealth. In the shadows behind the pavilion, his eyes made out something resembling a small-sized, grey boulder. Drawing near, though, he saw that it was no boulder: rocks did not breathe. Slowly and carefully Gildor crept closer. At a distance of about ten feet he halted, and softly he cleared his throat, hoping for the best.

The boulder did not yell; it merely froze and stopped breathing for a few heartbeats, after which it acquired a head, and a face, and became Zaba. She had tied a piece of cloth around her head, and he could see some brownish stains on it, but otherwise she looked unhurt.

'You...' Zaba whispered, recognising him. 'You are hard to shake off, Gildor.' Yet she sounded relieved rather than annoyed. Almost glad.

'And you,' he murmured, bridging the remainder of the distance between them, 'are taking a great risk to venture inside this camp. The Númenoreans will scarcely offer you the kiss of peace when they recognise you. Not after you lodged that complaint against them. Come, let me take you out of here.'

Shaking her head vehemently she turned her right ear back towards the pavilion, pointing with a finger. Gildor, relenting for a moment, listened, and heard the Ciryatur's voice say. 'Well, what is it to be, Beregar?'

'I am trying to remember!' came the - half-desperate - reply. 'Please, give me some time, my lord.'

'Very well. Until this candle burns down.'

The admiral's last words were followed by a heavy silence. Gildor wondered how long the candle would last, and what the exchange had been about. He eyed Zaba questioningly. She shrugged. 'I was only just ahead of you,' she breathed. 'But we had better not speak.'

He crept a little closer still, until their arms almost touched and he could feel her body heat. Why had she followed Beregar and his captors into this camp? After all the hostilities and foul looks that had passed between her and the young Numenórean sailor it was difficult to imagine that she would take any risks to free him. In which case it had to be something else that had drawn her here. And Gildor knew what it had to be.

Impulsively, he laid a hand on her shoulder. 'Zaba...' Instead of pushing his hand away the girl turned her head. 'Zaba,' Gildor repeated very softly, 'leave now, if you value your freedom. Not to mention your life, and possibly your soul. I do. I value all of these.' While he said it, he realised that he meant it with all his heart.

Zaba gazed at him, her lips parting as if she were about to speak. Yet she did not. Was it hunger he read in her face? What was it that she craved so desperately, that made her stare at him as if she were starving and he were a piece of bread?

Gildor could not have said why he did it, but suddenly her face was between his hands and his lips were on hers.

He had not intended it to be more than a short kiss of friendship, a pledge of trust. But when her hands grabbed his arms and her mouth and tongue began to devour him, to his utter amazement Gildor found himself responding.

He was kissing a mortal woman, and his heart stood still.

(TBC)


	44. Chapter Forty-four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Gil-galad**

'They abducted Beregar?' Gil-galad asked, trying to keep his anger at bay, just in case Glorfindel would turn out to be mistaken. 'Are you certain?'

Glorfindel sighed. 'Everything points to it.' He hesitated. 'Abducted - or worse.'

Gil-galad shook his head rather vehemently. 'I am sure that if they had killed him, there would be a body. It would look as if the yrch had slain him, and we would not suspect it to be otherwise.'

'If they had killed him, they would have been yrch,' Tárion muttered somewhere at his elbow.

For a few heartbeats, Gil-galad found himself thinking that he could have lived with it. A dead Beregar could not tell anyone who it was that had given him his freedom against the Ciryatur's wishes. The next moment he cursed himself for entertaining such thoughts. He felt the back of Tárion's hand caress his to reassure him, a seemingly casual movement - though if Glorfindel had looked their way it would never have fooled him. 'You say that Gildor stayed behind to search the battle ground more thoroughly, to see if he could find Zaba?

Glorfindel shook his head. 'I did not. It was what Gildor said he would do.' The implication was obvious.

'If it should turn out that he went to the Númenorean camp on Beregar's behalf...'

'You will truss him up and send him back to the Blessed Realm, my lord King?'

'Let us say,' Gil-galad mused, 'that I can see why they were happy to see him leave.' All three of them chuckled, though briefly, and without much mirth.

'What do you intend to do now?' Tárion asked at last.

Gil-galad shrugged, feeling powerless and more than a little annoyed. He could not even admit to the Númenoreans that he had been aware of Beregar's whereabouts.  
  
'One wonders,' Tárion muttered, 'if Beregar was abducted because the Ciryatur wants to question him about Orgol's ring.' The suggestion that it was the commander of the Numenórean fleet who had stolen the much-debated piece of jewellery hung heavily in the royal pavilion. No one seemed eager to embrace it.

'What if I ride to the Númenoreans, pretending that I am looking for Gildor,' Glorfindel offered suddenly. 'Meanwhile, I could look and listen and investigate a little.'

To see, hear and sense things that others would miss. If anyone would be able to find out more, to achieve anything unaided against hidden and not-so-hidden evil it would be Glorfindel, the twice embodied. Slowly, Gil-galad nodded. But even Glorfindel, he realised, would not be able to spirit Beregar away from under the admiral's very nose. 'Should you find him,' he added, 'please tell the Ciryatur that I would appreciate it if Beregar were to accompany you back here.'

'Tell him?' Glorfindel asked, nonplussed.

'Yes,' said Tárion, who had once thrown Gil-galad's letter into the fire because it failed to use the word 'beg'. 'No request, no plea. It is the High King of the Noldor who occupies the high ground here. Though maybe he should have raised his banner a little sooner, instead of playing the role of the mysterious rescuer to avoid a confrontation with the Ciryatur.'

They were in perfect agreement. 'Spoken with the High King's tongue, Captain,' Gil-galad said to Tárion, catching the flicker of dark amusement in his lover's eyes before he turned to Glorfindel. 'Tell him, that I have decided that Beregar is not to be tried on the isle of Númenor. If anyone has a right to judge him, it is the injured party.'

'I thought the injured party was Gildor?' Glorfindel remarked.

Was he unhappy with his assignment? Or was he merely trying to be funny? Come on, Gil-galad thought. Surely you see the point?

'Shall I go?' Tárion suggested, his tone slightly malicious. But he knew too well that the Ciryatur would consider it less than respectful if he did, and Gil-galad did not even have to shake his head.

But Glorfindel did. 'You can leave it to me,' he said with the ghost of a smile.

When he had left Gil-galad turned to Tárion. 'I am not wholly sure about raising the banner. But I am inclined to think that it would have been better if Beregar had remained in Mithlond.'

'I am not wholly sure,' Tárion replied pensively, 'that one of your guests from the Blessed Realm would not have taken matters into his own hands anyway.'

***

**The Ciryatur**

They had recommended Beregar as astute, adventurous, and ambitious enough to venture outside the well-trodden paths, should the occasion demand it. Not easily defeated either. A few private conversations with the young man had confirmed this assessment, or so the Ciryatur had thought. But at the moment, Beregar was the image of dejection: slumped on the pavilion floor, his head bent, his hair, sweaty and mussed and obscuring most of his face.

The admiral checked the hourglass. They were running out of time, yet he could detect no signs of compliance or co-operation in the prisoner's attitude.

He found it hard to believe that Beregar, while in possession of the ring, had not asked the Dark Lord why he had launched this massive attack on the Elven realms, sweeping assorted tribes of lesser mortals before him. The most obvious explanation for his silence would be that the Elves had somehow used magic, had ensnared him and woven their dark webs of enchantment about the defenceless young man. Perhaps that golden-haired sorceress had done something with him; she could turn a man inside out merely by gazing at him, laying bare his inmost thoughts - unless he was strong, of course.

I was strong enough, the Ciryatur thought with pride. She never reached my innermost recesses. But then, he had the blood of Elros in his veins, though he was not of the line of Kings.

Most of the sand had trickled down the hourglass by now. 'Time is almost up,' he told the pitiable figure on the floor. 'Do you remember?'

Slowly, Beregar lifted his head. 'He strives to rule the world by force, and the Elves will not yield him their freedom. That is why he attacked these lands.'

The Ciryatur stared at him, feeling his fury rise. 'I do not believe you,' he said harshly. 'He would not say it so openly if that were his goal. Obviously, the Elves have tampered with your brain. So: why did he attack?'

'I did not claim this was what the Dark Lord said,' Beregar had the cheek to reply, straightening a little. 'But it is the truth.'

'Truth has as many faces as it has tongues,' the Ciryatur spat. 'Your truth is Númenor's and your king's, not the truth of the Elves. You defy your commander - I should have you executed!'

Beregar blinked, but to the Ciryatur's disappointment - it would be so much more convenient if the boy would simply consent to talk - he did not cower or beg for mercy.

He remembered they had also applied the term 'brave' to this young Romenna sailor when they recommended him. Stubborn, he said to himself. That describes him better. Too stubborn for his own good - or mine, for that matter. 'However,' he went on, 'as I still believe that you have some interesting things to report, for the time being I shall merely inflict a little pain to make you see reason and be more forthcoming.'

When he looked at the hourglass again, all the sand was in the lower half. The next moment, his ears caught the hiss. It was soft, yet distinct, and it sounded suspiciously like 'Bastard!'

His head jerked up. ' _What_ was that?'

Beregar had the evil courage to look astonished. 'Nothing, my lord.'

The Ciryatur reached him in two steps, raising his hand.

***

**Beregar**

He heard the word clearly, and having younger ears than the Ciryatur had, he knew it came from outside the pavilion. It was followed by... not words but something else, something resembling an idea or a suggestion rather than a fully-fledged thought. It had not originated in his own mind but was sent to him, and in conscious language it would have taken the form of: _Stall for time._

'Wait!' he heard himself shout before the Ciryatur's fleshy fist connected with his head. 'Maybe I do remember something!' The next moment, the blow descended and he toppled.

It took some time before the worst pain ebbed away. If his words had diminished the impact, he hated to think how his head would feel if he had not cried out. Gazing up he saw a face, contorted with fury, hover above him like an ominous, red-hued moon. An arm shot out to yank him to his knees again. 'What do you remember?'

'What the Dark Lord told me.' Stall for time. The truth was, that there was nothing to remember: he had never had a chance to ask the master of the ring anything. Questioning and interrogating was apparently Sauron's prerogative. Offering, tempting, seducing - and afterwards bending and binding wills, commanding and coercing. Those he held in his clutches had to respond and obey. Beregar knew that now. He shuddered.  
  
'Speak!' the Ciryatur cried impatiently.

So he did. 'The Elves,' he began, rubbing his head, trying to think of something plausible. It must have been an Elf outside. But 'bastard' - was that an invective that an Elf would use?

'What about them? Beregar, I swear, if you -'

'He believes they do not belong here,' Beregar interrupted him. 'Because they are deathless, while nothing else here is.' Now where did that come from? This is folly, he thought suddenly. Why am I doing this? What am I fighting for? His palms and armpits were moist with sweat. So he would be punished - what of it? It would be just, even though the one who decreed it was not a righteous man.

The Ciryatur balked. 'He is no more mortal than they are!'

At that instant, there was a noise at the entrance of the tent. A hand pulled the flap aside and a head poked in. It belonged to the officer Herendur, who had been ordered to wait outside. 'The Elf lord Glorfindel requests an audience with you, my lord,' he said.

Throwing Beregar a threatening look, the Ciryatur strode out of the pavilion. He does not want Glorfindel to see me, Beregar thought. Had they discovered his disappearance, and was the Elf here to look for him - maybe even to help him? Was it Glorfindel who had send that thought and told him that he must stall for time? But what could he hope to achieve?

A sudden sound made him turn his head. He stared. Opposite the entrance of the pavilion, a knife blade protruded from the oiled cloth. Beregar had barely noticed it when it began to slide down, slicing through the tent cloth with a soft, scraping noise. Someone, it appeared, was making an attempt to help him escape. Someone other than Glorfindel.

***

**Gildor**

When their mouths finally separated, Zaba eyed him in wonderment. 'I though you despised us,' she breathed. She touched her lips.

'No, no!' he whispered urgently. Ah, Elbereth! How terrible that she should think such a thing! 'I never...' He faltered; after their kiss, his tongue seemed to have lost its taste for words, while his brain and senses were a whirlpool. What an awful time and place for such an awkward situation.

He noticed that he was holding her firmly, thinking that he should let go of her, but failing to do so. _This is madness._ He thought of the fate that had befallen his grandsire's brother. Aegnor had chosen never to leave the Houses of the Dead, for he loved a mortal maid who had passed beyond the Circles of the World(1). Should I have foreseen that on these shores, mortal dangers could take the form of a woman, Gildor wondered? And would it have kept me from leaving home?

No. Never.

At last, Zaba moved. 'I need - time,' she breathed. He felt her hands slide off his waist.

'Yes,' Gildor replied softly, finally tearing his arms from her. 'But please let me... your wound...' He touched the strip of cloth around her head where it was darkened with blood.

'Feels warm...' she whispered. Then her fingers closed around his wrist and she pulled his arm away. 'It is just a scratch.'

Her hand was cold, and the world reasserted itself. Inside the pavilion, the Ciryatur's voice rasped: 'I do not believe you,' and from his vantage point outside, Gildor could see a single rider approach between the double row of torches lining the main road through the camp. What is Glorfindel doing here? he thought, still a little dazed, but then his mind found leverage. So his royal cousin wanted Beregar back?

Watching Glorfindel draw closer he registered the Ciryatur's increasingly heated words inside the tent, culminating in threats of execution and torture. He also registered the rage emanating from Zaba, and the hiss that rose from her throat like vapour from a boiling cauldron. 'Bastard!' Too loud! But could he blame her? Turning to touch her shoulder he caught her next, silent curse. To his relief, the first one seemed to have gone unnoticed.

But what to do to save Beregar from his own commander? Remembering that the young man had proved sensitive to it before, Gildor did the first thing that occurred to him: using mind-speech to tell Beregar that he should stall for time.

'Wait!' he heard Beregar cry, just as Glorfindel reined in and dismounted, a scant ten feet away.  
Not much later Gildor heard a male voice announce Glorfindel's arrival. Footsteps followed and he assumed that the Ciryatur have left the pavilion. The risk seemed worth taking, so he raised his dagger - to discover that Zaba had beaten him to it and was cutting through the tent cloth with her own blade.

'No!' he breathed. She must stay outside; she could not risk being caught. It occured to him that maybe he ought to take her to safety before he undertook anything else. But there was no time to do so if he also wanted to free Beregar, whose predicament was worse. It also crossed his mind that he was imitating someone, but that thought he dismissed as irrelevant.

Meanwhile, Zaba was shaking her head. As he could guess well enough why, Gildor was forced to desist. If he truly wanted to prevent her from entering he would have to take resort to violence, and that he would not do. He sighed, and indicating himself he raised one finger. _I will go first._

She drew back a little, apparently willing to humour him in this. The cut was wide enough, and he slipped inside. _Glorfindel_ , he thought, using mind-speech, _try to prevent the Ciryatur from re-entering, if you can_. But he doubted the other Elf would catch the thought, not expecting it to be there.

Beregar seemed hardly surprised; he must have noticed some of the activity behind the pavilion. At Gildor's gesture he rose and Gildor began to cut through the rope tying Beregar's hands behind his back. While he did so, he saw Zaba dart to the trunk at the foot of the Ciryatur's field-bed. To find the accursed ring, undoubtedly, though it seemed unlikely that she would be successful.

_I have to break the hold it has on her,_ Gildor said to himself. _She must be delivered from evil._

'That is not where I would hide it,' Beregar whispered to Zaba, as if he had caught Gildor's thoughts. 'But if I were you, I would stay away from it, knowing what it did to me.'

'He is right,' Gildor said softly. Love, he added silently - wrong time, wrong place to say it aloud. By now, he had cut Beregar's bonds. 'We have to hurry,' he urged. 'Zaba, please. If the Ciryatur returns and we are still here -'

'I will not come with you.'

(TBC)

 

 

1)Read _The Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth_ , in Morgoth's Ring (History of Middle-earth 10).  


  


  


 


	45. Chapter Forty-five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Glorfindel**.

The commander of the Númenorean army received him outside his pavilion, which seemed rude, as his visitor was sent by the High King. However, Glorfindel guessed that there was a different reason behind the admiral's lack of manners - an enlightened guess, given the circumstances.  
  
'What would draw your friend Gildor to our camp?' he heard the Ciryatur answer his query. 'I was not even aware of the fact that he had joined this campaign.'

'We believe that he is looking for a comrade, someone who was lost during tonight's skirmish, but who was not found among the fallen.'

'I see.' The Ciryatur nodded, his expression betraying nothing - or nothing that an Elda who had known but few mortals in his first life and not many more in his second, could read from the face of a sly and experienced man. 'Would you like me to order a search for your friend, master Elf? Or can this wait until dawn?'

'There will be no need to spare any of your men for a search, my lord admiral,' Glorfindel replied, spotting an opening. 'With your permission, I shall conduct the search myself.' He smiled. 'It will not be necessary for me to enter any of the tents - unless it is your own, for a few moments? As it happens, there is one other thing I have to discuss with you - a request from my king.' He cast a glance at the guards and at the officer who was standing around without any apparent purpose.

Shifting his weight to his other foot, the Ciryatur hesitated, as if he tried to determine how best to refuse and under what pretext. Glorfindel decided not to wait for the outcome. Quickly he slipped past the admiral to invade the pavilion.

The sight that hit him there made him freeze one step beyond the entrance. What in Arda was the harebrained fool thinking? Provided the processes going on inside Gildor Inglorion's mind could be described as thoughts.

The next moment, he heard Beregar speak up. 'No. I will flee no more, as if I have something to hide. It was folly to keep what was never mine to take in the first place, without even knowing what it was. It could have had dire consequences for Middle-earth, and maybe Númenor as well. It will be no more than proper if it has dire consequences for me.' His eyes took in Glorfindel's presence before they came to rest on something just behind the Elf. 'Do with me as you please, my lord admiral.'

Stepping inside the Ciryatur said in his coldest voice: 'A commendable decision, young man.' He turned towards Glorfindel. 'You will not have to search any further for your wayward companion, master Elf. Would you be so kind to remove him from my presence?'

'Leave, Gildor.' Glorfindel could hear that his own voice was only marginally warmer than the Ciryatur's. 'You have not heard the last of this.' He imagined Gil-galad raising his voice in wrath before putting his cousin in chains and sending him back to Aman - provided such a thing would still be possible after the coming battle. Should they turn out to be victorious, though, he might also have to commend Gildor for his enterprising spirit.

To his credit, Gildor made no objections. Tearing his gaze from Beregar, who gazed impassively at one of the tent poles, he bent his head. 'Come, Zaba,' he said softly.

'No! Not the half-breed girl!' the Ciryatur snapped. 'What is she doing there, looking underneath my pillows?'

Zaba, still bent over the field-bed, looked up and stabbed a finger at the admiral. `You have my ring. I want it back!'

Somehow, Glorfindel was not surprised.

***

**The Ciryatur**

She would have to die for that, he decided in the lengthy silence following her allegation. The girl was nothing but a nail in his coffin. But it was Beregar, of all people, who spoke first. 'It is no use seeking it, Zaba.'

'I know he has it!' she cried. 'Why else was I drawn here?' She never lowered her arm. 'Admit it.'

What nonsense was that? The Ciryatur stared at her. How was it possible that this piece of dirt had the evil courage to accuse, no, attack the commander of the Númenorean army in his own pavilion, in the heart of his own camp? He did not deign to reply.

'You must be wearing it somewhere on your body,' the girl rambled on, straightening herself and taking a step towards him. 'Hand it back. It is stolen property!'

Beregar and Gildor spoke up simultaneously, one drowning out the other; the only word that the Ciryatur caught clearly was the girl's name. 'Guards!' he bellowed, not trusting the Elves to react adequately to this savage, and doubting that Beregar would lift a finger to protect him. When she advanced much too fast, he knew that the guards would be too late. So he jerked his dagger from its sheath and pointed it at her, his hold firm and stable. No need to stab or thrust; she had enough momentum.

The blade was forged by a master smith and honed to remarkable sharpness. And the demented female was unable to halt herself in time. He watched her impale herself on the metal, saw it slide though her tunic and felt it pierce the mailshirt she wore underneath as if the rings were made of dough.

She blinked. When the outrage on her face reshaped itself as pain, the Ciryatur pulled the knife out and stepped back, bumping into his belated guards. He heard one of them swallow a curse, and he realised he had stepped on his foot. Before him, the girl crumpled to the ground, a stain spreading across her chest like a blood-red peony opening many times more quickly than nature had intended. Her hand crawled toward it as if to pick it. But it was too feeble.

Beregar was the first to drop on his knees beside her, followed immediately by Gildor, whose face resembled a marble bust.

'My lord,' one of the guards ventured, 'did you call us?'

Stupid question. 'I did. Stand by,' was all he said, without turning his head.

The girl's eyes had dropped close. 'Is she dead?' the Ciryatur inquired, satisfied to find his voice unaffected.

'No.' It was Gildor who whispered the answer, barely audible and none too convincingly.

The guards at the Ciryatur's back were a reassuring presence. He cast a glance at Glorfindel. The Elf appeared shocked, but not outraged or accusing. And rightly so; this was a clear-cut case of self-defence.

'But she did not attack you,' Beregar protested.

He sounded whiny and childish, the Ciryatur thought. 'Did she not?'

'Her hands are empty.' This time it was Gildor who spoke; his voice seemed to have lost its usual Elvish clarity. He was trying to prevent the red flower on the girl's chest from growing any larger, using his own cloak.

'I see a weapon on her hip. For all I knew she would have drawn it.' For all he knew she had been about to draw it. 'Take her out of here,' he added.

Now, Glorfindel also knelt beside the girl, and motioning for Gildor to move aside a little, he laid a hand on the wound. Looking up he asked: 'Could you please provide a hurdle, my lord admiral? Too much jolting could prove to be fatal.'

The Ciryatur shrugged. He did not believe that she would survive, but they were free to keep up their hopes - though why they should care was beyond him. She had been an embarrassment to everyone, including the Elves. Nothing but a nuisance. 'Go and find something to carry her on,' he told the nearest guard.

'Before I forget, my lord admiral,' Glorfindel added almost absently, his eyes still resting on the girl's pallid face, 'King Gil-galad requests you to deliver the sailor Beregar Falmalion up to him. He wishes to adjudicate the case himself.'

Suddenly, he did look up, and it seemed to the Ciryatur that the Elf's clear, grey gaze put a choice before him that had little to do with the Elvenking's immediate wishes.

Elves were seldom forgetful. Glorfindel knew when to choose his moment, the admiral thought resentfully. _Intruder_. He closed the shutters of his soul.

***

**Beregar**  
  
Why? he wondered. Had she not listened to anything he had told her? Had she wilfully closed her eyes to the devastation around them that was so obviously wrought by the Dark Lord? Blind fool! Beregar thought, helplessly furious and ready to blame the victim. But his next thought was: who was it that failed to convince her?

He remembered their kiss before the gates of Mithlond. Somewhere inside his mind, its meaning had slowly evolved from pleasure to promise and from there to a determination to pursue - until the Ciryatur's hounds had hunted him down. Bending over the limp figure on the pavilion floor he felt a keen sense of loss, and little hope. How could the girl possibly survive a wound like this, even though Gildor did his utmost to staunch it? Beregar saw the golden head hover above Zaba's face, mouth slightly parted, as if he wanted to breathe the life of the Eldar into her. _Why look so despondent, Elf? Mortals die all the time._ Even had she lived to a ripe old age, Zaba's life would still have been the blink of an eye to the likes of Gildor.

He realised there was something wrong with this thought, but he did not know what, and he was loath to dwell on it.

Vaguely, he could hear Glorfindel convey some request from the Elvenking to the admiral. It was about his delivery. One of the more ambiguous words in this world. He felt like an object bandied about by people who cared more about their own prestige than about his fate, but at that moment, he could not care less.

He would like to cry or shout, but he felt too numb to do either.

***

**Tárion**

When Galadriel's daughter reported back shortly after daybreak she looked grim, and he guessed that not all the injured had survived the first encounter with the enemy. She looked tired as well, though less than he had expected. 'Am I in time, Captain?' she asked calmly. Almost too calmly, as if his verdict could not possibly affect her. Was she hoping he would discipline her, perhaps remove her from the King's Guard? That way she could back out and still salvage her pride: _all I did was finish my work. One wonders if the Captain would want the healer to walk out on him with a wound half-dressed, if he were injured?_

Tárion took a deep breath. 'You are in time.' Despite himself he added: 'Are you well?'

'Well enough, thank you.'

He was about to order her to take some rest when Celebrían went on: 'Captain, what would your answer be say if I asked to be dismissed from the King's Guard?'

So now she put his previous thoughts to shame, knowing that this was precisely what he wanted to do, and offering him the perfect opportunity. No more risk of having to choose between her and Arto in the thick of battle. 'To rejoin the healers?' Tárion heard himself ask. Every drop of blood that she shed would make her hands less fit to heal; therefore it would also be for her own good, if he sent her away.

'That would be the main reason.'

But not the only reason, apparently. What else could it be? Not fear, of that he was certain. He yearned to say: 'Then go, my lady.' He had the power to do so, and her prowess in battle would hardly make much difference.

Tárion did not know what possessed him in that brief instant when he decided to deny them both their own good. Unless it was fate. Unless it was one of the myriads of minor notes in the great music that the Powers had made before the world came to be. Unless it was his awareness that their own personal good fell just short of being good enough.

'I could not honour such a request, were you to make it,' he replied slowly. 'You have committed yourself. We are at war - and the members of the King's Guard are warriors. They protect their King and fight for the good that he defends, light and liberty, the right of the earth to breathe, the right of the springs to run clean, the right of living things to grow and prosper freely under the Sun. Fighting the evils that infest this world is also healer's work.' He eyed her gravely. 'Are you indeed asking for permission to leave the Guard and join the healers?'

Celebrían shook her head. 'I am not, Captain.'

Then why did you ask? he wanted to say, but he knew. And thus she was avenged for his testing of her in the armoury. Maybe he had been closer to failure than she had. How strange it was that the same love could strengthen and weaken you at the same time, almost as if the strength and the weakness could not exist without one another.

The first rays of the sun glanced off the crown of Celebrían's head, drawing silver sparks. 'Go and take some rest,' Tárion told her. 'We will not march immediately.'

`Thank you,' she replied, very composed. It occurred to him that she would have made a worthy queen.

Gazing after her, he saw Argon join her and speak to her. His second in command seemed about to throw an arm around her shoulders, but then apparently remembered that she was a different kind of comrade. Watching the two until they disappeared behind a tent Tárion heard Gil-galad emerge from the pavilion behind him. His lover laid a hand on his shoulder, and he placed his own on top of it. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Gil-galad was the first to break the silence. 'I wonder how she would have reacted if you had told her you would honour her request,' he said pensively.

'Should I have, Arto?' Tárion knew only too well that the King was at least as unhappy with her presence as his Captain was.

Gil-galad sighed, squeezing Tárion's shoulder rather hard. He did not reply.

Tárion chuckled mirthlessly. A foolish thing to ask. 'Yes and no,' he answered his own question.

'What's that?' Gil-galad suddenly exclaimed.

Turning his head, Tárion saw a rider approach from the direction of the Númenorean camp. The horse Glorfindel's, but the rider was -  
\- Beregar?

(TBC)  



	46. Chapter Forty-six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Gildor**

To an Elf, this wound would not have been fatal. But mortals were frail. Though his mind shied from the horrible truth and his hands kept attempting to stop her blood from deserting her body, Gildor's heart knew that Zaba was dying. Why else would it hurt so much?

Because it was all his fault, of course. Because there had been to many moments when he could have protected Zaba from herself but had failed to do so. He had been unforgivably foolish.

_She was a fool,_ an icy, disdainful voice spoke inside him. _A fool to attack the admiral-_

_She wanted to expose the man!_ came the heated reply. Both opinions were his but he preferred the latter. This was the one he wanted to be true.

He thought he saw her lips move and bent his head towards her. What was she saying? If his ears had been any less sharp he would have thought it was just another laboured breath. `Danger,' she whispered, or so he thought. 'Dangerous... Must be... destroyed.'

Somewhere above him, Glorfindel was talking to the Ciryatur, and Gildor found himself wishing he would hold his tongue, wishing that the guard who left the pavilion would cease stamping and his armour cease jangling. He held Zaba's pain-clouded gaze with his own, willing it to stay alive, forbidding the eyes to break and glaze over - they could not, they must not -

Her lips, unnaturally pale, opened slightly, as if she invited him to kiss her once again, one last time. And nodding - yes, I will - he found his face descending and his mouth brush hers, a ghost of a touch; the lips relaxed, and when he looked again he thought it was a smile he saw there, but his own smile was a dismal failure.

When the guard returned with a hurdle, Zaba was dead.

Her severed fëa, he knew, would wing away and cross the boundaries of Arda to where he could never follow her. But when he tried to fathom what 'never' meant, he was at a loss. For the first time he understood that mortality was inconceivable for someone who could never grasp death other than as a long absence or the end of the world. Separation for all eternity was too large a concept for his finite mind.

What made it worse was that most of it was his fault. He should have left Zaba in Mithlond. He should have done more to prevent her from entering that tent. That there was no way he could have kept her from doing what she did, from freely staking out her own path towards this end, was not something Gildor wanted to accept. Nothing had been wrong with his reflexes when he had thrown himself between Beregar's dagger and Gil-galad. But he had doubted Zaba. He had kissed her, yet he had doubted her purity of heart, and his doubts had lamed him. I am to blame for her death, he thought dully.

The Ciryatur said something that sounded like 'take her out of here', as if anyone in his right mind would have left her with her murderer. It was Glorfindel who carried her from the pavilion in his arms. Gildor had wanted to do that but the other Elf briefly shook his head. And wisely so: when he stood, Gildor discovered that his legs were hardly steady enough to carry his own weight.

Outside, he was surprised to see that Beregar had come along - so much, in fact, that it cleared his head a little and made him aware of his surroundings again. 'I thought you refused to follow us?'

'I refused to flee again,' Beregar replied hoarsely. 'The admiral said that Glorfindel could take me along,' he added almost as an afterthought.

Gildor had missed this somehow. He did not understand. 'Why?' The man was evil - killing Zaba, threatening to torture Beregar... He shivered when he recalled the Creature's attempt to insinuate that Gildor Inglorion had more right to be High King of the Noldor than Artanáro Gil-galad did, and he felt more ashamed than ever at the willingness of his own ear, that day. Corrupt to the core - Sauron Gorthaur would have little difficulty to enrol this man into his service.

That was an even more chilling thought. 'Why would that murderer let you go?

Beregar gazed at him for a while. Then he shrugged. 'Your king seems to have a better claim on me than my own commander has.' Gildor could not tell whether he thought this was a good thing or not.

'I suggest that we leave.' There was a trace of worry in Glorfindel's voice. He turned to the young mortal. 'Beregar. Will you take my horse to carry Zaba' - he did not use the word 'body' - 'to the High King?'

Beregar nodded. Strangely enough, he appeared to mourn Zaba as well. But why should he be the one to take her to Gil-galad? Gildor was about to offer his own services when it occurred to him that he was the only one who knew where his horse was.

And indeed: 'Where did you leave your mount?' was the first thing Glorfindel asked as Beregar rode away, the dead girl - Gildor's heart lurched - cradled in the crook of his left elbow, the reins in his right hand.

'In the bushes outside this camp. Away to the East. I left part of my armour there as well,' Gildor replied while they set out. It occurred to him that by filling the silence with the sound of his own voice, he could prevent it from swallowing him. Quendi were supposed to be prolific talkers, and he had always been able to vie with the best. `By the way, Glorfindel, I believe that Zaba found a riderless Númenorean horse, or she could never have reached this camp ahead of me. Unless she let the horse run free it should still be out there. If we can find it we will not have to ride pillion. Of course it belongs to the Númenoreans, but we can always return it later...'

Glorfindel did not interrupt him while he jabbered on, something for which Gildor was grateful, even though it did not help much.

***

**Gil-galad**

So the strange girl who had lodged complaints against both the Númenoreans and the Elves was dead. Very sad. And sadly convenient. But that was an unworthy thought, and the King rebuked himself at once.

Meanwhile, Beregar's account was rather garbled, and part of what he told them was difficult to believe, Gil-galad thought. His own cousin, breaking into the Ciryatur's pavilion together with Zaba? Zaba, stabbed to death because she attacked the Ciryatur, whom she suspected of having the ring? A tall story. The King decided to wait for Glorfindel and Gildor, preparing himself to blast the latter back to Mithlond and beyond for his folly, should it turn out to have been his idea to add a back entrance to the Ciryatur's pavilion.

Meanwhile, the young mortal knelt beside Zaba's body like someone about to hold a lyke-wake for a loved one. She will have to be buried before we march, Gil-galad thought, feeling ill at ease, as if he was the perpetrator of some shady and dubious deed who wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the evidence.

A few steps away, Tárion stood gazing down at Beregar and the girl with a grave expression on his face. _A star for your thoughts, Vlanya._

_Thank you - I could use a spark of light... We have one deeply troubled young mortal here._ Tárion's reply was tinged with sadness. _But that was not what you wished to speak of, or was it?_

Gil-galad sighed. Suspecting someone was one thing. But being presented with evidence of his guilt... _I am attempting to wrap my mind about the idea that it was the admiral who took the ring. A high-ranked Númenorean who has Tar Minastir's ear and who is Tar Minastir's sword-arm in Endor - sneaking into our bedroom as a thief?_

Our _bedroom_? Gil-galad sensed a brief flash of mirth from his lover, but the next instant, Tárion seemed to berate himself for being amused at this hour. _Beregar believes it was he. I deem him to be right, seeing what else the man has proved himself capable of. No one is safe from the lure of evil; even the most powerful of the Ainur succumbed to it. But I suppose you could have the girl's body searched to be certain._

Gil-galad shook his head, and not merely because the suggestion had been less than enthusiastic, or because he doubted there was much certainty to be had these days - save the knowledge that they were marching against Sauron and his own vow to fight this ancient foe of Finarfin's house. But he was loath to disturb the dead. Even in the unlikely case that Zaba had the ring, the best thing would probably be to bury it with her.

He was still dwelling on this when Glorfindel and Gildor arrived. The former looked merely sad, the latter seemed to be fraying at the edges, as if the mortality of Endor's shores began to unravel the undying sureties of Aman that seemed to have wrapped him like a cloak since his arrival. Did he take Zaba's death so badly, then? Gil-galad's outrage at Gildor's behaviour began to dissipate a little.

Glorfindel's account was more composed and detailed than Beregar's, but basically the same. It left hardly any doubt that the Ciryatur now possessed the ring. The question remained, what he would do with it. 'Beregar,' Gil-galad began, motioning for the young man to rise. 'Did you not mention that your admiral wished to know if it was Sauron the Deceiver's voice that you heard while you wore the ring.'

'I did, my lord King,' Beregar replied quietly. `And I confirmed this. He also wished to know if I had asked the Dark Lord why he had attacked the Elves of Eriador.'

`And did you?'

`I cannot remember doing anything of the kind, my lord. As I told the admiral.'

'Are you absolutely certain?' The King eyed Beregar gravely. He saw that the young mortal felt ill at ease under this close scrutiny, but it could not be helped. It was too important to find out whether or not the Ciryatur knew what lay behind Sauron's onslaught and his unforeseen strength and mastery. The Númenorean commander was more than enough of a liability without such... incriminating knowledge. With it -

`I mean, I did not ask. I was overwhelmed by Sauron's evil presence.' Beregar cast Gil-galad an imploring glance.

The King held his gaze for a few more moments, observing him closely.

Beregar swallowed and nodded. He seemed to be speaking the truth - or what he perceived to be true. 'I warned the admiral against the Dark Lord,' he offered after a pause. `More or less. I said that Sauron tempted me to act against my better knowledge.'

'And do you believe that he heeded your warning?' Glorfindel's friendliness contrasted markedly with Gil-galad's much colder voice.

'No. He accused me of making it up.'

'Despite the fact that you attacked the High King?' Tárion spoke suddenly.

The young man nodded mutely.

_You are both intimidating him, my lords._ Glorfindel looked from the King to his Captain. _Maybe you should desist?_

'Well,' said Gil-galad after a tension-filled silence. 'As we cannot determine what goes on inside the Ciryatur's mind, we had better let it rest now.' He saw that Gildor had taken Beregar's place beside Zaba, the very image of sorrow and regret. Once more, he wondered why his cousin was so stricken. 'I believe,' he added to no one in particular, 'that we can safely assume the ring was never in Zaba's possession.'

Gildor looked up, blinking. 'Of course we can. Why else would she have gone all the way to the Ciryatur's pavilion, risking discovery and perhaps worse?' He closed his eyes. 'But I do no longer believe that she tried to retrieve the ring. She whispered something to me, before... she died.' His voice faltered. `Something about destroying it.' With an almost deferential gesture he touched Zaba's hair, brushing a stray lock away from the bandage around her head.

He seemed determined to believe in the purity of her intentions, and one could think worse of the dead. Yet Gil-galad could not refrain from asking: 'Did it ever occur to you to try and keep her from entering the pavilion in the first place?'

Gildor's throat moved. His fingers kept touching the dead girl's hair. `I did not want to use force. An error of judgement.'

Faced with this self-recrimination on his cousin's part, the King decided to let this rest as well; no point in creating further discord. 'Let us hope that she has found peace.'

His gaze shifted. 'Beregar, I assume that you know a Númenorean prayer for the interment of the dead?' He doubted that hymns to the Valar would be fitting: the Powers seldom dealt with mortal Men, whose ultimate destiny was beyond their authority and ken.

Straightening, Beregar replied. 'Yes, my lord King. I know the appropriate prayers.'

'Then let us bury her,' Gil-galad said. The matter of the ring and the danger posed by the Ciryatur could be addressed afterwards.

***

**Beregar**

When he gazed up from the freshly filled grave he saw that he was not alone. The others had left, but Gildor remained standing near the moist patch of loose soil amidst the flattened grass. One of the King's guards - the Elf-maiden Celebrían, as Beregar had noticed to his surprise - had placed a wreath of grass blades and leaves on it, at which Gildor was staring now with an appearance no less mournful than Beregar felt.

What was Zaba to the Elf? He recalled that it had been Gildor in whose company she had walked during the first days of this campaign. It had also been Gildor with whom she had broken into the Ciryatur's tent. How close had the two become? He felt a sudden resentment. That fool of an Elf should have prevented her from endangering herself.

Would you have seen it coming? asked an infuriatingly reasonable voice at the back of his mind.

Suddenly, he thought of Gildor's words to Gil-galad: _She whispered something about destroying it._ 'Gildor,' he murmured.

The Elf looked up. His face was wet, but that could be the drizzle; Beregar felt it on his own face as well. However, Gildor's eyes looked slightly puffed, and the first, weird thought that came to Beregar was: so not even the Firstborn weep beautifully. The second was, that something eluded him here. A violent death ought to be a demise that even the deathless could comprehend, yet Gildor appeared lost and confused.

'What is it?' Gildor asked listlessly when Beregar did not immediately continue.

'Do you truly believe that Zaba did not want the ring back? Not for herself, I mean?'

Briefly, the Elf's spirit seemed to burn a little brighter. 'I do,' he replied.

The conclusion was inevitable: Gildor believed it because he wanted to. Dearly. At the same time Beregar, the sailor of Númenor, the fisherman's son of Romenna, realised that he did not believe it. The Elf was deluding himself.

What did it say about them, and about him in particular? That he distrusted Zaba unto the grave? That he still considered her a fool? In that case, part of what he mourned was his own inability to mourn truly. The very idea that he could have come to love her was preposterous, and his interest in her had been nothing but the basest desire to possess her. While Gildor, amazingly, must have loved her indeed - for he was apparently blind to the truth.

Well, he would have lost her anyway, Beregar thought, and that too, confirmed his own opinion about himself. He was no good. Not even as a spy. _Glorfindel was too optimistic to think I would be given the grace to redeem myself._

Unless -

He hissed softly.

'Beregar?' Gildor was staring at him with an strange expression on his face.

Shaking his head Beregar said: 'Nothing,' and walked away to ponder his options.

(TBC)  



	47. Chapter Forty-seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Tárion**

No one had been able to offer a solution during the brief meeting before they broke camp. As Círdan put it, they were at the mercy of a man whose intentions were a matter of conjecture at best. Even if it had been proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the Ciryatur had taken the ring - which was not the case - acting on this knowledge would rob the Númenoreans of their commander, which would only create confusion and chaos in the ranks of their allies. Extremely put, in the blunt words of Gil-galad: if they would stoop to assassinate the Ciryatur with a well-aimed arrow, they would earn the enemy's lasting gratitude by causing their own defeat. (It was said rather wistfully, but Tárion doubted if Arto would have been able to loose the arrow. He was not even certain that he was ruthless enough to have done it himself.)

Outwardly, they clung to the possibility suggested by Glorfindel: if the Ciryatur had interrogated Beregar about his experiences with the ring, he could hardly have been communing with Sauron. So maybe he had not put the ring on his finger yet, and maybe this meant that he would not do so unless and until the Dark Lord's victory was within sight. But this was cold comfort at best.

At one point, Tárion had wanted to shout that it was madness what they were about to do. But if sanity alone were to rule the world it would grow cold; right and wrong would be matters of mere calculation, of order without justice, testing the mind but not the heart and the will. If he was not prepared to live in such a world he had to be prepared to fight and to die.

With grim determination they set out behind the High King's blue banner with the twelve silver stars. The Sarn Ford was less than a day's march away now. According to the scouts' reports the casualties suffered by the orcs had not markedly diminished the strength of Sauron's army, and it still outnumbered theirs. The Númenorean reinforcements were approaching from Lond Daer, but they would be worse than worthless if the Ciryatur would change sides.

Though it did little to lift their mood, the High King and his captain could not help discussing the matter further while they rode to battle, occasionally looking to their right, where the banners and standards of the Númenoreans darkened part of the overcast sky. 'As I see it,' Gil-galad said after they had gone over all possibilities again, 'the worst that can happen is that he orders his entire army to join the Dark Lord's. In which case death will put and end to all worries.' His expression belied the flippancy of his tone.

Tárion had seen him cope better. He wished he could play down the threat by claiming that the chance of betrayal was small. But he knew too well that if he could not fool himself, he would not fool his lover either. The admiral had yielded up Beregar too easily, as if digging in his heels about so small a matter was not worth his while. That was out of character in a man so keen on prestige and formalities. It did not bode well. So, after a short silence, he decided on a different course.

'I doubt it would be the end for us,' he remarked. 'How do you think Mandos will judge us when we lose Endor to the Dark because an unresolved issue between the two of us held our attention while we should have been guarding a potentially dangerous artefact? Not to mention our silence regarding the errors of Celebrimbor?' If defeat was to be the outcome, their worries could very well last until the end of Arda, but there was no need to say this aloud.

'Are you trying to stamp out my remaining hopes?' Gil-galad inquired, not looking aside.

'Since when do we hope for death, who were meant to live?' Tárion refused to relent. 'But you did not speak of hope, Arto. If you had you would have remembered your great example Finrod, who clung to the _estel_ that the One will never abandon His own children. Finrod knew that we are not meant to despair even if, and when, we are fated to fall. That is why we ride on and do not cease from fight - instead of turning tail and set sail while we still have the chance.'

Now Gil-galad did turn his head. His eyes glittered. 'Good speech... You know exactly when to mention Finrod, do you not, Valanya? You know it is also for him that I ride.'

As if he had needed the reminder. 'Just as I know that you would go on even without an army at your back, if you had to.'

Before they rode, Gil-galad had addressed his troops, warning them that reports proved the odds to be yet more uneven than it had appeared before and that everyone who so desired could retrace his or her steps to return to the Grey Havens and the ships waiting there. He had done everything he could to suggest that unexpected perils might lurk ahead without actually incriminating the Númenorean commander: the Ciryatur's liaison officers in the Elvish camp would be certain to take exception to this and inform their lord.

Not very surprisingly, none had left after the King's speech - though maybe there were a few who did, yet lacked the courage to show their lack of courage. Managing to keep a straight face Tárion went on: 'Not that you would have to go all alone, of course. What do you think - shall we set out tonight under the cover of darkness to snatch the Dark One from between his minions, you and I together?'

Gil-galad gave in and chuckled. 'Thank you for reminding me why I love you.'

'I knew the feeling was mutual.'

'Then let the clouds unfold!'(1) cried Gil-galad. He gripped Aiglos and raised the spear to the sky. A ripple of sound went through the ranks behind him, rising to a loud cheer.

For a moment Tárion actually felt the hope he had claimed for his king and his love.

***

**Glorfindel**

Gildor worried him. His younger companion was uncharacteristically silent - much more so than after slaying Orgol in that valley south of the Havens. This time, Gildor was truly touched to the quick. Though it could have to do something with the uncertainty they faced, now that it seemed obvious that the Ciryatur had the accursed ring, Glorfindel doubted that it did. Whatever Gildor lacked, it was not courage, or he would never have crossed the Great Sea. Though to be entirely honest, he doubted if the coming battle loomed very large in Gildor's mind at all.

'Is it the thought of Zaba that ties your tongue?' Glorfindel asked.

A brief nod, but Gildor did not look up.

'You are blaming yourself for not keeping her out of that pavilion? Or for taking her along on this campaign in the first place?'

If there was another nod, it was almost imperceptible, as if it was painful for Gildor even to move his head.

_You will have to do better, Glorfindel,_ he thought. 'If she was drawn to the ring, there was nothing you could have done short of gagging her, tying her up and dragging her away.'

'Glorfindel, it is not funny,' Gildor said in a strained voice.

'It was not my intention to be funny,' replied Glorfindel evenly. Should he leave the younger Elf to his own devices? But it hurt merely to look at him as he rode along, shoulders sagging, head bent, left arm dangling at his side, right hand holding the reins too loosely. If he had not been sitting atop a well-trained horse he would have fallen behind long ago. It was as if the usually cheerful, undaunted Gildor Inglorion - who had managed a jest even when his attempt to save Gil-galad almost cost him his life - had remained behind when they broke camp, leaving hardly more than a shell to ride to battle. Grief could kill the Eldar, though many more had perished by weapon or torment in the course of time. Some were known to have invited death by their own actions, and this was held to be a taint of the fëa. But as fate had placed Glorfindel at his side, there was a chance that Gildor would avoid being tainted thus, the other Elf vowed silently.

'Unburden yourself, Gildor,' he said, 'and your arm will wield the blade more easily for the sake of Middle-earth.'

With what looked like a tremendous effort Gildor looked up, and his gaze brushed Glorfindel's before it fled into the distance and beyond, as if it sought to detach itself from the visible world. Finally he spoke. 'What would you say. if I said that I loved Zaba? That I love her still, though she is gone?'

What was he saying? 'I do not see why she should not deserve to be loved her like any other child or Ilúvatar.'

'Not that way, Glorfindel.' Gildor's voice was barely audible. He took a deep breath. 'Call me the worst fool since Fëanor, but -'

'I saw Turgon's daughter fall in love with a mortal,' Glorfindel interrupted him, overcoming his initial shock. 'So why should I ever call such a thing foolish?'

Zaba did not resemble Tuor in the least. Her mother belonged to a people considered dark and savage. It could be that Gildor confused pity and sympathy with love. Yet how could anyone save Ilúvatar alone, judge the hearts of the Children? When Gildor failed to reply Glorfindel said: 'You fear that you will nevermore meet again, because it is said that the fates of Elves and mortals are sundered?' It was this anguished fear that had forced Lúthien's spirit from her body after Beren's death. Small wonder that Gildor was so despondent, especially as, in his eyes, he had failed to protect Zaba.

'I do.'

Glorfindel could think of a great many things he had better not tell Gildor right now, while it was hard to find words that would be more than a cold, bleak truth. 'The power of the Eldar resides in memory,' he offered. 'While you live, Zaba will live in you,' - which ought to be an incentive to remain alive - '...but maybe you consider this small consolation?'

'And what if I do?' Gildor was still gazing into the distance. 'What else could you say to comfort me? I have a part in her death.'

'You do not. The Ciryatur has her blood on his hands. You could not have prevented him from killing her. Ultimately, you could not have prevented her from following our army or riding to the Númenorean camp or entering that pavilion, except by robbing her of her freedom - one of the things we fight for.' _Though it can lead us into ddisaster,_ Glorfindel thought, recalling the history of the Noldor and their flight from Aman. His own history. 'To claim that you could and should have prevented her death,' he finished, perhaps more sternly than he had intended, 'is to deny your own limitations. A thin disguise for pride.'

'I was asking for comfort,' Gildor muttered after a rather long silence, 'not waiting to be rebuked.'

'Yes, you were.' Glorfindel left it to the other to decide how to interpret this. He looked down at his hands and at the reins they held before seeking Gildor's face again. 'I shall be honest. There is little more that I can think of to tell you, _mellon,_ save this alone: that you could ask yourself how best to honour her memory.'

***

**The Ciryatur**

The question whether he could have refrained from killing the bastard girl had been lurking in a corner of his mind. Once he removed the ring from his finger it reared its head again.

He was not too sorry to be rid of her. Zaba had caused a great deal of embarrassment and, given the opportunity, would have caused a great deal more. Moreover, the girl had been about to lay hands on Tar Minastir's admiral, the most powerful Man currently dwelling in Middle-earth.

On the other hand, stabbing her to death had been overkill, and the Elves had already guessed that he had the ring before he drew his blade. That was also the main reason why he had let them take the young sailor back to the Elvenking. That, and the fact that Beregar's sorry hide was no longer worth squabbling over. Beregar could tell his Elven friends whatever he liked; it did not matter. Their king could not act on conjecture. He could not even rightly claim the ring. And even if he sent people to search both the admiral and his tent, they would find nothing.

But the knifing... the Ciryatur sighed. He hated to think of himself as a butcher. He preferred not to feel ashamed of himself, not even a little bit. This kill had been as primitive and uncivilised as it was messy. Though he had washed the gore from his hand and wiped the dagger, his surcoat was still damp with blood. Fortunately it was made of dark blue wool. At the moment, he did not feel like changing.

He gazed at the piece of jewellery in his palm; was this the real reason why he had killed? It was heavy and seemed to throb like an infected finger.

Beregar had spoken the truth. There had been a voice talking inside his mind while he wore it, a very civilised, cultured, rational voice. It belonged to someone styling himself 'Lord of Gifts' and identifying himself as the leader of the opposing army. This Annatar, who modestly claimed to be Lord of Arda, deeply regretted the needless hostility the Elvenfolk displayed towards him, and deplored their inability to understand the despair of mortal Men in the face of death.

He, Annatar, did understand their desperate fear of the void beyond the circles of this world, their one and only. He had looked into it himself, nearly having been thrust into it by the Powers of the West - those same Powers that cared only for Elves. It was asking too much of mortals to lie back meekly and close their eyes, knowing that the Firstborn would live on and on.

That was why the Lord of Gifts had forged life in the form of rings. Rings were round; they stood for containment, for perfect order, for the Circles of the World itself - but being without end they symbolised nothing as much as life unceasing. Yet his rings were more that that: in them, symbol and symbolised were one, and this was a source of great power. No doubt a highborn son of the Land of the Gift would understand such a deep truth better than most. It would be best if they met to discuss this face to face, Eye to eye. Then, everything would be explained to the Númenorean lord's full satisfaction, and he would be made privy to mysteries that he had never dreamt of.

Would the lord Annatar be so kind to explain, the Ciryatur inquired politely, why he had attacked the Elven-realms of Eriador?

He would. The Elves had welcomed him to their forges and greedily embraced the knowledge he had offered them. Using this knowledge they had crafted rings of their own, imbuing them with the powers of life and growth, of nourishment and preservation. But they had shown themselves ungrateful. They had begrudged him their own, Elvish lore, guarding their secrets like Dwarves would guard their private names - because he had wrought rings for other races, too, races they deemed beneath them. As one of them had said once, no other race should oust them. That was when, sadly, Annatar had decided that the Elves were a curse to Middle-earth, and a malediction. It was a pity that the Númenorean rulers did not yet perceive this, but he trusted that in time they would come to understand.

Contrary to Beregar's claims, the Lord of Gifts did not make treacherous suggestions. No calls to kill the Noldorin King, or to send the Númenorean cavalry charging into the Elvish ranks. But as it was imperative that the Ciryatur acknowledge Annatar in person, it were better if the hostilities did not get in the way of their encounter. 'If you see what I mean.'

Of course he did. At that point, the Ciryatur had told the Lord of Gifts that he would ponder this alluring proposal. But it was time to march on now, if only to bridge the distance that separated them. Annatar's voice and words had been pleasant enough, but the Ciryatur did not care for him to meddle with his mind any more than he cared for the Golden Witch to do so. He had pulled the ring from his finger.

When he did, his hand had felt strangely naked and much too light.

(TBC)

 

1)Apologies for the far-fetched references to William Blake. But it could have been worse. I could have let Tárion mention his arrows of desire, or something.  
  



	48. Chapter Forty-eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Galadriel**

The bowl she had found did not bear much resemblance to her own mirror - Celebrimbor's gift, left behind in Lorien and awaiting her return. If return she would.

Yet it was beautiful: a steel basin, a product of Noldorin craftsmanship, stainless and flawless. It had been wrought to last, to withstand the onslaught of time unscathed for many a yen. A healer to wet a cloth for cleaning a wound could have used it. It could have been used on the royal table to hold scented water for washing hands. Galadriel liked to think that it had, in fact, been used for both purposes - healing, cleansing - and possibly more.

Tonight, only starlight would touch the surface. Hopefully it could be done, she mused, emptying the jug she had filled in the Fountain Court. What, after all, was the source of power? The vessel, the water, the watching eye? Her soul, her will, her living breath? She touched the ring hanging on a chain around her neck. Nenya, her ring - yet attuned to the Water that was not her creation; entrusted to her care, yet not to be claimed by her finger, nor ever to be loved too dearly by her heart. The old sea longing tore at her, coursing through her veins, even making her break into a sweat. Briefly she wondered if this was akin to what mortals called fever. It abated when her skin lost contact with the metal, but it was not gone. It would never be entirely gone while Galadriel remained on these shores.

She blew on the water, softly, as if it was a creature not to be disturbed too much when it could not fully be controlled. Gentle ripples spread lazily towards the rim until the tide ebbed out and the surface gleamed smoothly again. Though the sky above was overcast, bright stars blinked back at her from the surface, while yet more stars danced in the unexpected depths, as if the shallow bowl had become a bottomless trough of time ready to yield up past, present and future at random. Steam rose from the water and the liquid glass misted over. But she was schooled to sift the images that met the mind's eye, and bending over her makeshift mirror, Galadriel looked and penetrated the mists.

The first image she saw was that of a member of the King's Guard, riding to battle. The image of her daughter.

***  
  
 **Celebrían**

On the brink of battle she felt oddly at peace. Not because she was wholly unafraid of being slain or having to shed blood: Fear was legitimate as long as it did not aspire to rule supreme. So was regret. There was no fighting without some form of defeat, no victory without some kind of loss, she mused, and the thought of Zaba crossed her mind like an arrow honed with regret. Choosing was part losing.

Perhaps, Celebrían thought, this is why the wise among the Firstborn will embrace fate, instead of rattling its chains and calling it bondage, fearing themselves robbed of will and freedom. _I am here because it is my place to be here, not because_ \- and inwardly she smiled at herself - _of a silly maiden's vain infatuation._

She looked ahead. To Eldarin eyes the enemy forces were visible in the distance; they were riding straight towards them. The far bank of the river Baranduin and the hills beyond were coated with layers of black, flecked with the dull red of flames and crimson smears that had to be blazons on banners. The dome of the sky was pale and remote; the tiny, dark specks that had to be crebain looked displaced in its indifferent vastness.

She could remember her mother saying once that they were on their own 'in these lands, in this age,' and her father replying that such had been his life of old - 'and why should it not be thus?' She had been a child then; fearing that her parents disagreed with each other she had hoped that both of them were right, that the longing for another place and time and the certainty of being at home here were of equal value.

Her father. Her mother. Galadriel would have discovered days ago where her daughter had gone. She had not intervened, for she would not. Her mother was able to face loss, having survived the innumerable tears of Beleriand. Celebrían could only hope that her father, besieged in a vale far from here, would prove as strong - or else, that they would meet in the Halls of Mandos. And all of a sudden the thought that her sire and she were braving similar dangers lifted her spirits.

'Wondering about the battle, my lady?' she heard someone say.

It was Argon, the Captain's second-in-command. A good soul, though perhaps a little too eager to think that he was in need of support. 'I am Celebrían, sir, a member of the guard, nothing more,' she told him. Did his face fall a little? She hastened to add: 'But you were right, I was wondering about something. The Dark Lord's entire army is arrayed on the other river bank. Will they cross the water when we draw nearer?'

He shook his head. 'We shall be the ones to cross it.'

'But we will be at a disadvantage if we do,' she objected. 'I know that there is a ford, but even so the water will make it more difficult for us to charge.' It did not take an experienced strategist to see that.

'Indeed,' he replied, 'but we have no choice in this matter - Celebrían. It is the only way to engage them. And we have not come this far merely to stare at the enemy from across the water. But' - he hesitated - 'yes, it will cost us.'

He sounded as if he would rather have spared her the truth. She was convinced that the next thing he would do was ask her if she dreaded the fight. So she forestalled him. `Do you fear defeat?'

A sharp intake of breath. Silence. Then he replied, looking straight ahead: `Death I can face, but more than our lives is at stake here. Yes, I do fear defeat.'

Was this why Argon paid so much attention to her? To reduce the vast dread of that which could not bear contemplating, which was too large for a single soul to grasp, to the more penetrating but also more manageable fear for a single person's life and well-being? When he kept avoiding her face Celebrían's gaze wandered towards the leader of their army, the one whose shoulders bore the responsibility now and might have to bear the consequences later. Did Gil-galad fear defeat - and how would he manage his fear?

***

**Gil-galad**

They were very close now. Even their mortal allies could probably see the differences between the various Mannish contingents and the more numerous Orc troops. Or hear them: most of the clamour and shouting came from the _glamhoth(1)_. And while the Deceiver's mortal warriors had raised many different standards, the majority of which bore animal devices, the standards of the orcs were all similar: a ring of flaming gold encircling a black void, like a widened pupil staring into the dead of night.(2)

_One ring to rule us all..._

Never. And at that moment, Artanáro Gil-galad wiped all thoughts of defeat from his mind.

There were enough hours of light left for the battle to begin today. The waters of the Baranduin gleamed dully, mirroring the slate sky. On the other side, the orcs were shaking their weapons at them, leering and yelling. They taunted their foes in their own black speech, of which the King knew enough to recognise the words for 'coward', 'foul', and 'cruelty', and a few terms referring to body parts or activities not openly mentioned among more civilised people. He had learned these during the War of Wrath from captured Easterlings who knew some Orc-speech. After repeating them once, he had felt obliged to rinse his mouth.

Some of the mortals were shouting insults, too, their language hardly better than Orcish, though their voices jarred less. He saw Easterlings, and warriors of other Mannish tribes: Dunlendings, Southrons, even men resembling the Edain. But when he found himself wondering, sadly, why mortals were so easily corrupted, he checked himself. Not even the deathless Eldar were exempt from folly, as this war amply proved. Men had just very little time in which to grow wise - yet Ilúvatar had willed it so.

His eyes - he had to force them - moved up the enemy ranks to the dark presence at the heart of the host they were facing. The same image of flaming gold around a black void met his gaze, not round like a ring, but stabbing at the sky like a tall finger. He could feel an alien mind touching his own, painful as an unexpected dash of cold water against a hot skin: _so there you are, little Elvenking... are you my match? Your kinsman Finrod was not - and he had seen the Light of the Trees._

Gil-galad shuddered, fighting the loathing that rose in him like bile. With an effort, he shielded his mind against the Dark Lord's prying; the answer would be that Finrod Felagund had been lamed by Mandos' Curse and his own guilt, but he would die before he would admit such a thing. _I am grateful for the reminder,_. he shot back.

Tárion caught his reply. 'What reminder?' When Gil-galad told him, he smiled. 'Strengthening your resolve by trying to undermine your confidence? Oft evil will shall evil mar, as the saying goes.'(3) He paused. 'Will this be the moment?'

'It will.' And Gil-galad gave the signal for Círdan to send his archers forward for a first volley. He looked toward the Southwest, where some companies of Númenorean bowmen, but not all, were readying themselves. The Ciryatur would keep most of his troops back during the first onslaught; the Elves would bear the brunt of the attack, once they would cross the river and Sauron would launch his own forces.

Gil-galad's eyes roamed the lines of kneeling archers, and suddenly he found himself wondering if Beregar was among them, a lone mortal among the Eldar.  
  
***

**Beregar**

He shot his first arrow into the compact mass that was the enemy. If he had been an Elf, he would probably have known where it landed and what it accomplished. As it was Beregar saw too many foes fall to be sure if his arrow had felled one. Nor did he have much time to look: the enemy was shooting back and he had to retreat quickly behind the shield wall of Círdan's shipwrights.  
  
When he asked them for a bow the Elves had been surprised in a slightly condescending way, as if they would never have guessed that he could handle one. He had bristled, though none of them had actually questioned his ability to shoot, even though they were supposed to be better archers than Men were. But they had bows to spare after several of their warriors had been slain during the orc attack of the previous night, and they were probably reasoning that even chance hits were better than none at all. He bore his grudge against their Elvis price and self-assurance in silence, while his voice thanked them for the weapon.

Many arrows thudded into the tall shields before him, others flew over the barrier, and some of these struck home. His bane was not among them. Neither was Gildor's. Amidst the screams and shouts Beregar glanced aside; Glider had also asked for a bow. It seemed a poor exchange for the war-horse that had been offered the High King's kinsman, but the other Elves had shrugged and granted his request.

When Beregar had asked Gildor why he joined the archers' ranks the reply had been: 'Do you not want my company then?' He had nodded, be it not wholeheartedly. Almost as by chance they had ended up in the right wing of Gil-galad's army, close to the Númenorean troops.

He darted forward, another arrow notched. Draw. Loose. 'Good shot,' he heard Gildor cry beside him, but he could not tell whose achievement the other was referring to; there were too many archers within earshot. Could be me, he reassured himself, knowing he was no mean bowman. _Compared to other mortals,_ a voice in his mind warned.

Behind the shield wall again. He smelled blood. An arrow whistled past, hitting nothing but earth. Nothing? Poor mother Arda. What wrong had she done? A strange thought, quickly replaced by the realisation that the arrow had missed him by an inch. No time to dwell on it, though: forward again. Beregar manoeuvred a little further towards the end of the line, where the Elvish warriors almost brushed sleeves with his fellow Númenoreans. It was only after his bowstring had thudded back against his leather-clad forearm that Beregar noticed how Gildor seemed to be copying his manoeuvre.

Together, they withdrew behind a different part of the shield wall. Beregar could have sworn that the elf was following him. Why? What was happening here? Forward, aim, shoot - and no time to ask questions: when the signal pierced the air, the exchange of arrows was over and the charge began.

***

**Gildor**

When he praised Beregar for his shot - the young man handled the Elvish longbow with ease and his prowess was remarkable - his words seemed to fall on deaf ears. For some reason Beregar had closed up like a clam, shutting the world out and himself in. That the young mortal was tense was not too hard to understand; the prospect of having his spirit ripped from his body held no appeal for him either, different though their fates after death would be.

Yet Gildor suspected there was more to it, a suspicion bordering on alarm; not quite foresight, yet more than a feeling. It had emerged after Zaba's burial, and this was also why he wanted to keep Beregar company.

He even had an inkling of what was behind it, but any attempt to figure it out would cause him to dwell on Zaba's fate, and he knew he must not do so. Not while he fought on this field. It could tempt him into recklessness, into seeking revenge and abandoning himself to fury, to his desire to annihilate the one who had given her father that malevolent piece of jewellery. But by courting death he would risk consigning her memory to Mandos together with his houseless spirit, instead of honouring it on the living earth, like she would have wanted him to do.

That, he would not do. If he fell it should be defending life, not throwing it away.

When the charge began, he saw Beregar move further away again from the centre of Gil-galad's army. The archers were not supposed to partake in the first mass attack but to hold back and save their arrows for enemy warriors who broke through. In itself, spreading their range a little was all right, so why did Beregar's movements strike him as furtive?

Pot and kettle, Gildor muttered to himself following the young man, half an eye on the fighting in the river, while his ears tried to ignore the shrieking of metal and the yelling of the orcs. He saw several black-armoured shapes scramble out of the water onto the riverbank and loosed another arrow. He was not the only one to do so; none of the orcs survived. Looking aside he saw Beregar halt and raise his head, nostrils wide, like an animal catching a scent.

The scent of Númenor. Of the Ciryatur. I was right, Gildor muttered to himself, although he had never consciously guessed what Beregar's intentions were. He sent one more arrow towards the next cluster of orcs crossing the river. Then he turned to follow Beregar again.

(TBC)

1)Sindarin, meaning 'din-horde'  
2)No, not a lidless eye. That belongs to the Third Age. I don't know if this image is canonical; I used it because it works for me.  
3)Stolen from the Rohirrim, but I don't feel sorry.  



	49. Chapter Forty-nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Glorfindel**

Seeing Gildor leave to join the archers on the right flank of Gil-galad's army Glorfindel pondered their last exchange. 'Why are you doing this?' he had asked.

'Because Beregar does.'

'Would you jump down a cliff if Beregar did so?'

An impatient shake of the head. 'Did you see the look on his face when... when we buried Zaba?'

Glorfindel nodded. He had also noticed the look on Gildor's face.

'If he is that desperate, he may yet commit some folly,' Gildor assured him.

Glorfindel sighed. Could he insult Gildor by telling him not to shoot arrows at the Ciryatur until the man ordered his entire army to defect?

Apparently, his face was an open book. Gildor shook his head. 'I did listen to you, earlier today, Glorfindel. Have no fear that I will dishonour Zaba's memory by committing some rash act that will result in my death. It would be as if she would die once more with me, would it not? Trust me.' He smiled briefly before adding: 'But this is all I can say, as I cannot tell what Beregar has in mind.'

Assailed by doubt though he was, Glorfindel nonetheless chose to do as Gildor asked him, and to retain some faith in sorrow as a teacher of wisdom. 'If he should need your protection,' he replied at last, 'I trust that you will provide it. May the Valar guide your mind and hands.'

'And yours.' Gildor smiled again. 'I have to go now.' And gone he was.

Glorfindel eyed his receding back thoughtfully. Before they had embarked on their voyage he would not have hesitated to say that he understood Gildor Inglorion well enough. Now, however, he was less sure, and he could only guess what it was that had changed. Maybe their easy rapport had never been more than shallow. Short as their sojourn had been so far, it had affected both of them deeply.

_And I remain more of stranger here than he does,_ Glorfindel mused, _while I have changed less._ In Valinor, they had been equals in deathlessness, for almost nothing could kill them. In these mortal lands, though, the omnipresence of danger and death had driven a wedge between him and all others, including Gildor. They had never died. He was the only one for whom physical vulnerability and mortal peril were a choice. In a way, this separated him from the younger Elf as thoroughly as it separated the Eldar from mortal Men - almost as thoroughly as it had separated Gildor from Zaba.

He laughed softly. Of all the people pondering death at this very instant, he, Glorfindel, had to be the strangest. But why dwell on that which divides? It would merely feed the Dark One's desire to dominate.

_There is always more that unites us than what divides us,_ he said to himself. Both love and life were larger than death. This was a land of the living, the place where his body breathed now. He would defend it until there would be no more air to breathe.

***

**Tárion**

He had made sure that he was close to both Gil-galad and Celebrían; the King was at his left and she was at his right, with Argon on her other side. Argon will watch over her, Tárion had assured himself; being the Captain he had a right to delegate. Except that he had promised that he would protect her personally. And so he would.

They were crossing the river. At the Sarn Ford, the Baranduin was shallow and the far bank did not rise too high, but it was thronged with orcs hailing them with barbed javelins. Soldiers felled by Elvish darts fell into the undeeps, their bodies raising an additional obstacle for the attackers. Progress was slow, like plodding through loose sand or heavy snow.

Gil-galad skewered an orc who leapt up from the water, trying to slash the belly of his war-horse. Tárion beheaded another who launched himself forward from the corpses of his fallen comrades. Hearing a shriek to his left he ventured a glance and saw Galadriel's daughter pull her blade from a slain enemy.

Yes, she could fight.

An arrow grazed his mailed arm, another one of his horse's ears. The animal neighed loudly and reared, hooves smashing into warriors pushed into the water by pressure from behind. The orcs kept surging forward. Aiglos entered Tárion's field of vision, its tip dripping crimson. It pointed at the heart of the vast, dark host, where Sauron was waiting for them: unmoving, irrepressible like the awareness of bad news. Sauron, who belonged to Gil-galad.

Black specks in the skies above cawed coarsely: crebain and other winged scavengers gathering to feed. Winds began to blow the clouds apart; they might yet see the sun set.

Celebrían, a strip of pale skin between dully gleaming cheek plates and shadowed eyeholes, was still nearby, flanked by Argon. Tárion's mount scrambled onto the riverbank. A brief moment of danger: with a whiplike movement he darted forward to deflect a spear aimed at the chest of his horse. Then he was on the far side of the Baranduin, wedging into the masses, hacking at bared fangs and foul snarls ( _how can a mere maid bear to look at these? She must have a hard core_ ).

His arm found a cadence. He did not love to fight but he would turn it into something he could avoid to loathe. For this, too, was an art: drawing with sword strokes, sharp lines, cutting deep, blood red on black, the dark craft of slaying that all warriors had the duty of mastering against their innermost desires. The thought crossed his mind that he could paint this with cruel passion carried over from the field - if there would be anything unstained left to paint it on. If they were victorious he would do it, in harsh colours to lay bare the soul of battle.

If they wanted to win - and they must - they had to cut to the quick. When he saw an opening, slightly to his left he moved in, together with the King, shouting to the members of the King's Guard to follow.

***

**The Ciryatur**

The battle went on after evenfall. The Dark Lord's forces kept trying to drive their enemies back across the river, and as the Elves and Númenoreans were not prepared to give up their hard-won territory, they could not afford to cease fighting.

At the coming of dusk, the clouds had begun to disperse, but the half moon was hazy, as if a veil hung across it. Its presence hardly slowed down the orcs, while its light was to dim to be of much use to the Men. The Ciryatur had withdrawn his archers and the section of his cavalry that he had sent into the fray so far, in order to avoid broken horses' legs and arrows spilled in the dark. The Elvish riders had dismounted and fought on foot, but he did not. He needed time to think anyway.

The battle hung in the balance. The troops marching Northeast from the mouths of the Baranduin could tip it. But the Ciryatur knew they would not march by night, and this meant they would not arrive at dawn. He wondered what Annatar, who styled himself Lord of Arda, could achieve. The odds were in his favour and would remain so when the reinforcements arrived. But whatever the admiral held against the arrogant, haughty Eldar, they were undoubtedly the better fighters. They were slicing through the orc ranks like the proverbial hot knife through butter, he thought, mildly amused. It would take Sauron himself to stop Gil-galad.

Provided that Annatar could be vanquished at all. Listening to the clamour further to the east, the Ciryatur could feel the ring underneath the fabric of his surcoat. What would an alliance with this mysterious lord bring him? Power, and a realm of his own? More life? A silver-haired maiden? Conjuring her naked image before his mind's eye he felt the stirrings of arousal, only to see the maiden replaced by a naked Elvenking, in chains, and kneeling on all fours.

He chuckled, knowing who among his high-ranked officers would find this an interesting sight... Then he shook his head. Gratifying as the image was, he must not allow it to distract him. Even if he would ally himself with Annatar, the prize that was Gil-galad would hardly go to him. Again, his fingers crept toward the hardness of the ring. Perhaps he should put it on his finger and ask its master some more questions. Annatar had told him to come in person, but how would his minions know not to kill him? Was there a secret to this ring that could help him to survive their unwanted attention?

The Ciryatur frowned. The bloody trinket was getting on his nerves. He should be considering the advantages and risks of changing alliances, make a mental list of officers who would object and possibly rebel. Pondering tactics and strategies and politics. It was decidedly too early for another exchange. _Leave me alone,_ he thought, or so he imagined, but to judge by the startled looks of the captains sharing his campfire he had said it aloud. He shook his head when one of them asked if he considered it wise to be alone at a time and in a place like this.

`I was addressing a ghost of doubt,' he added, allowing his mouth to curl as if in a smile. Turning his back to them his hand crept towards the ring again.

***

**Beregar**

It had to be past midnight, he guessed. Away to his right, the Elves were still fighting the orcs. The men of both sides, hindered by their mortal eyesight and a somewhat weaker constitution, were resting. Beregar heard rather than saw the battle going on despite the sickly moonlight and the red glare of torches filtering through the shrubbery where he had sought shelter with a group of other warriors. Most of these were men, but the troops of both armies had mingled, and a few were Elves.

Gildor, for instance, who had never left his side. Right now he was cleaning a scratch across his chin with water from his drinking flask, but Beregar suspected that Gildor was watching him all the same - and all the time. Stalking him.

They would have to talk this out before the night was old. Beregar rubbed his thigh; he suspected he had strained a muscle, but he had not felt it until he sat down. Gildor put away his water flask and closed the distance between them. Without forewarning he laid a hand on Beregar's leg, his strong, supple fingers pressing into the young man's flesh. 'Hurt yourself there?'

'Just muscle cramp,' muttered Beregar, feeling uncomfortable, even though he knew Gildor was not making any overtures. 'Will be over by dawn.'

Gildor began to knead the sore spot as if he knew exactly where the problem was located. A warm feeling crept into Beregar's thigh, and the pain diminished. 'Why are you following me?' he heard himself ask.

'To protect a comrade - and have his protection for myself?' the Elf replied.

'Do I need your protection?'

'You may want it yet.'

'Elvish riddles! ' Beregar snapped. 'I'll buy such an answer in peacetime. Not now. Speak plainly.'

'All right.' Gildor let go of his thigh. 'I think you are looking for a chance' - he lowered his voice - 'to avenge Zaba.'

Beregar felt caught out - until he realised why the other must have guessed this so easily. 'So are you ,' he whispered back.

***

**Gil-galad**

The enemy was blacker than any night could be. The hours between dusk and dawn were absence of light at worst, but Sauron the Deceiver was presence of darkness. This presence was the heart of his army, and to reach it their forces would have to cut a wide swath through the ranks of the orcs as if their flesh was withered grass. Yet whenever Gil-galad thought they had made progress, the heart of darkness was no nearer than before: it kept receding, as in a waking dream spun out of control, and his hatred did not carry him fast and far enough.

He began to feel his limbs; his muscles seemed to have acquired a life of their own and groaned when he spurred them on. Aiglos his spear, that none could withstand, became heavy with death. The rank smells of fury, pain and despair assailed his nostrils. Corpses were strewn everywhere, the majority of them orcs, yet too many of the eyes staring at Varda's lights without seeing them were Elvish. Not all members of his own Guard were still with him.

The Númenorean auxiliaries had failed to arrive before dusk, and he knew in his heart that they would not come with the dawn either. By noon next day, the battle could be lost, and with it life, love and all that was precious to Elves and Men of good will. Gil-galad wished that he could hold himself blameless, though he knew such thoughts were futile and would fail before Mandos the Unmoveable.

There was a lull in the fighting; the orcs seemed to pause, though they did not retreat. 'Should we not let our arms rest for the remainder of the night?' asked Tárion softly, turning towards him. 'It is not as if we have any advantage to push right now.' Half of the silvery stars on his surcoat were extinguished by blood; gazing down at himself Gil-galad saw that his own heaven fared no better.

He nodded; Tárion's remark sealed the hated decision. 'We will not draw closer to the Abhorred One tonight, I think. Still, the southeastern bank remains ours.' And the Ciryatur had not turned his cloak. Yet. No need to say it aloud; he knew that Tárion was thinking the same thing.

The signal given, they sat down surrounded by those members of the Guard who were alive and nearby. That Celebrían was among them was a greater relief than it should have been; why would her life's worth exceed that of the next guard? Yet he was forced to think of her as something to be treasured above the one he loved best - despite the fact that he knew Galadriel's daughter did not think of herself that way.

Stretching his weary legs he heard Tárion ask her if she was well. He noticed that she took her time to reply, and when the answer came it was almost inaudible; all he could hear was: '...fail him.'

Tárion's answer was soft but clear, and very short. `I know.'

Gil-galad pulled his helm off; it had a minor, but irritating dent near his right temple. He groped about for a suitable piece of rock to hammer it out.

***

**Galadriel**

Her makeshift mirror dawned in hues of grey and pink and purple. If Anar were to reveal her face today, she would blush with the colour of blood and hide herself before noon. Frowning slightly, Galadriel breathed on the surface of the water, waiting for the ripples to ebb away.

When they did, the images that she saw were not of the battle at the Sarn Ford, but of a army on the march. They were Númenoreans, she thought, and they seemed to be crossing a bleak, brown plain with nary a river in sight. These warriors could hardly be the Ciryatur's auxiliaries heading Northeast along the Baranduin, yet she knew they were facing a grave danger.

Before she had time to wonder about this, the scene shifted. She was looking at something that resembled a stern finger stabbing at a pale autumn sky. When her gaze drew closer, like a eagle soaring on the wind, Galadriel realised that the finger was a watchtower on an island in a river. She winced, knowing who it was that held that tower, and who lay bound by chains of iron and sorcery in the deepest dungeon underneath: this was an image of the past.

Long, golden hair like her own swept away the tower. It was the bare head of an Eldarin warrior who had removed his helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow. Slowly he turned towards her and it was Finrod, her beloved brother, or so she thought, until he cocked his head in a certain way and it occurred to her that it could be Finrod's grandson Gildor.

When the warrior put the helm back on the surface of the mirror misted over and cleared, and he became Gil-galad, standing on a mountainside. He was facing a huge shadow that she knew to be Gorthaur, her brother's bane; he burned with a dark flame. The High King raised his spear -

\- _I have to hold on to this vision!_ She knew that it was of great importance, and sensing the dark will of him who attempted to wrench it from her grasp. But she was unable to use Nenya and by the time she had mastered the mirror the scene had changed once more. This time, the water showed her the battle at the Sarn Ford, flaring again after sunrise.

Sauron's mortal allies rushed to the attack in an attempt to regain the lost riverbank. Wave upon wave pounded against the Elvish _thangail_ (1), and broke. Galadriel bent forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of her daughter among the identically armed members of the King's Guard. Could she be among the warriors shooting arrows at the throng of foes defending the black serpent banner? Entranced, Galadriel watched the small group of mounted archers, early sunlight flashing on their mail coats. The surface of the mirror glistened brightly and her head bent forward until her braid almost touched the water.

One of the archers was felled by a javelin through the eye.

Galadriel forgot to breathe. Her heart forgot to beat. She almost lost her grip on the mirror, and once again her mind battled the ancient enemy.

When she recovered, regaining control, another image had replaced the battlefield scene.

(TBC)

1) Sindarin, meaning 'shield wall'  



	50. Chapter Fifty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Gildor**

'He deserves to die,' Beregar whispered urgently when Gildor remained silent. 'He is a murderer, and he will probably turn traitor. He should be disposed of - surely you can see that?'

Gildor was not sure when a person could be said to deserve death and if so, who was entitled to do the slaying. But this was not the moment for niceties, and in all honesty he preferred a dead Ciryatur to a living one. 'Yes. The man is a liability,' he said at last, agreeing with the one thing he could wholeheartedly agree with. He knew that he was being less than honest with the young mortal, but if a stained conscience was his price of passage to these shores he was willing to pay it.

'So you are with me if we try to approach him?' asked Beregar.

'Have I not been with you since the battle began?'

Beregar accepted the question for an answer. 'Then let us seek him out before dawn.' Pulling his cloak around him he curled up on the ground as if the matter was settled. 'I need some sleep first.'

'I shall wake you,' Gildor promised him. He was not particularly tired and when he stretched out it was not to dream, but to reflect, his gaze on the star-clustered dome of heaven.

They crept towards the admiral's campfire in the chilly hour before the first light, when life burns low and the world seems to revolve at its slowest. Nevertheless they were late. The Númenorean guards were stirring already, as if they had been forewarned. From their vantage point behind a low ridge neither Beregar nor Gildor could see the admiral, though Beregar recognised his aide and several other members of his personal retinue. Was he still asleep? Or had he withdrawn to some secluded spot?

'He is b-busy swearing allegiance to Sauron and r-receiving his instructions,' Beregar murmured, vainly trying to keep his teeth from chattering. The toes of his leather boots were dark with dew and his face was pale with apprehension, until it split open in a huge red yawn.

Gildor was not cold, but he shared Beregar's nervousness. 'If he goes over to the Enemy he will have to inform his men of the change in strategy.' It was hard to imagine that the entire Númenorean army would obey without any kind of protest. But it might not come to that. The Ciryatur would have to address his troops, and to do so he had to be visible. One arrow should be enough. 'We will have to wait and see what happens,' he added.

***

**Celebrían**

They were fighting on foot now. She sensed rather than saw Argon go down: something fell away that had been there since the battle began, the previous day. Turning she saw him lie on the grass, a javelin piercing his eye, lodging itself in his skull. For an instant, it looked as real and unreal as a scene from a sad history of the Elder Days, sung to life - and death - by a skilled minstrel, a tale full of tears and sorrow. Then the maddening truth pierced her mind: this was happening now.

She screamed with fury. Argon was worth dozens of yrch, so she would have to slay them by the dozens to avenge him. And blade in hand, Celebrían charged. So did the other guards, and so did their Captain, and the High King whom they were all sworn to protect.

But right now, she was bent on killing and kill she did. No time to fear the foes, nor time to fear herself as she decapitated one orc with a clean sweep of her blade and gutted another. She lost count when the Dunlendings replaced the orcs, led by a huge chieftain in a wolfskin. Of course, he went for Gil-Galad.

Celebrían leaped. So did Tárion, and he was faster. He launched himself into the swiftly closing gap between the Dunlending and the High King, but she saw that his shield-arm was dragging and that it was too late for him to raise the shield properly. He would be skewered.

She threw her blade with all the force she could muster. It did not pierce the Dunlending's armour but it hit him hard, unbalancing him long enough for Tárion to move his shield in place, block his blow and retaliate with his own sword. It was then Celebrían realised that she was unarmed now, but before she could panic, a voice shouted her name.

Turning her head she saw it was Gil-galad. He held up her sword, which he had caught or picked up, and when she nodded he threw it at her, mouthing what looked like a 'thank you'. She plucked the weapon from the air - deftly, she thought almost amused - and fought on. It crossed her mind that she was a fool: you go to war, prepared to die for the one you love, and what do you do? You save his lover.

It was, she discovered, a liberating thought.

***

**Glorfindel**

The Dark Lord kept sending in fresh troops, as if he spawned them on the spot. Círdan appeared as grimmer as he had during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. The Elves had no more reserves left. Glorfindel was not sure about the Númenoreans, what with their commander being such an uncertain factor. He wondered if the Ciryatur was not holding back part of his cavalry - and if so, whether this was wisdom or cunning duplicity. However, the Númenoreans who did fight, were doing so side by side with the Elves, not against them. Hope had not withered yet; as always, despair was bad-mannered, presenting itself too soon.

If their defeat were sealed, he would let their enemies cut him down as if the body he wore now was his previous one. To his best knowledge he would be the first to die twice. He pulled a face: a few more such musings and he would look forward to his second death. But no: he was as alive as he had ever been, and he loved to be in the body. With renewed vigour he raised his blade - to a distant clamour, amidst the din of battle, that had not been there a mere moment ago. 'Círdan!' he shouted, disposing of his opponent. 'Are those trumpets sounding afar?'

The Shipwright's bearded face relaxed a little. 'Indeed they are,' he cried. 'The Númenorean reinforcements are coming.' He sobered. 'Let us hope the Ciryatur does not send them against us.'

No doubt Círdan was wise to be careful, but Glorfindel's heart could not help leaping. Hope did suit him best, after all. He smiled.

***

**The Ciryatur**

So the ring could render him invisible if he accepted Annatar's offer... This meant that he would be able to pass through the ranks of the enemy without being attacked or waylaid. But the admiral saw no compelling reason to do so. One stray arrow was all it would take, and even if he made it all the way to the master of the Rings he would be alone and defenceless and wholly at his mercy. It seemed a possibility to be considered only in the case of dire need, in the face of defeat.

He smiled thinly. Defeat seemed less likely than it had last night, now that the troops he had sent to the mouth of the river Baranduin were approaching; even his ageing ears could hear them bray. As they had marched only a few hours today, they would be fit enough to join the fray - and they could tip the balance.

If Annular appeared to be winning the Ciryatur could still side with him. He could, for instance, capture Gil-galad before the Elvenking could fight himself to death; and the High King of the Noldor would be a valued prize. If, however, Annatar were to lose this battle, what else was he but another gambling warlord? Hardly someone with whom it was wise to ally oneself.

And I will still have the ring, the Ciryatur mused; who can tell if I cannot make it work for me without help? Or, if Annatar was defeated, some kind of deal would be possible. But whatever was the case, he would cherish his ring. It had become precious to him. It was worth holding on to, regardless of what it could do.

The Ciryatur touched his lips to it and rose to don his mail, join his officers and give them their orders.

***

**Beregar**

'There he is!' Beregar hissed, pulling an arrow from his quiver and nudging Gildor with his foot. 'You had better shoot, too. Two have a greater chance than one.'

To his utter astonishment, Gildor's long fingers closed around his wrist. 'Wait.'

Had he gone mad? There would never be a better chance than now. Their enemy was perfectly visible and unprotected, they had ample cover here and they even had a fair chance to get away afterwards. He tried to pull his hand away, but Gildor held it in a vice-like grip. Why were those damned Elves so strong? 'Let go of me,' he whispered urgently.

'First, we need to know what he plans to do,' Gildor whispered back. 'Unless he orders his army to go over to the enemy, it would be folly to slay him.'

No, Beregar thought. He had been a fool all along. The Elf was not out for revenge. He must have decided that it was no use crying over a dead woman of a lesser race, the object of ancient Elvish name-calling: afterborn, sickly, usurpers, strangers, self-cursed, heavy-handed, night-fearers and whatnot(1) - he remembered reading these things in his Elvish history book.

'You betray her,' he said, choking, though he knew that it would not avail him. 'You value her no more than an orc!' Gildor's grip was hard enough to hurt, though it was nothing compared to way his heart was being squeezed to death. 'No, you must be the orc, to condone this deed and protect the one who did it.'

'Peace, Beregar,' murmured the Elf. 'Listen to me, for all our sakes, and most of all for the sake of Zaba's memory. My heart yearns to avenge her death, but if you kill your commander now, this battle will surely be lost, and with it Middle-earth and even Númenor also, in the end. Is justice for Zaba worth such evil? Nothing you do will call her back to this world.'

_If he claims that she would not have wished it, I will hate him._ Convinced as Beregar was that Zaba would have wanted revenge, he would have to contradict Gildor and defend her way of thinking - her way of being. Yet he felt no wish to fight over the dead.

When Gildor did not reply, Beregar asked. 'Do Elves only reason? Have you no feelings?'

'Yes,' replied Gildor, without explaining which question he was answering. He was still holding Beregar's wrist, but his eyes strayed, and the young man followed their gaze. The Ciryatur was fully armoured now and addressing his officers, but a competent archer would still be able to find his eye. With his free left hand Beregar pulled his dagger. Gildor, watching the Númenoreans, paid him no heed.

Or so Beregar thought, until the Elf turned his head and said, without attempting to wrench the weapon from his grasp. 'Kill me if you must, friend - but first tell me this: if you do this and you survive, could you live with the knowledge that your deed cast all Middle-earth into darkness?'

Though he knew the answer, Beregar did not speak for a long while, weighing the dagger in his hand, and his options with it. Somewhere far away, he heard a peculiar sound. At last, he said: 'Sadly enough there are many things that mortals can learn to live with, Gildor - more than you seem to realise. The problem is rather that I am not sure if I could die with such knowledge - and dying is not something that I can avoid.'

He sheathed his dagger. 'You can let go of my wrist now.' It was about time, for he recognised the distant sound now. Trumpets. Listening again, he could also hear the noises of the ongoing battle approach the place where they were hiding.  
  
When Gildor finally did as he was asked, Beregar went on: 'Did you hear what orders the admiral gave to his officers?'

The Elf nodded.

***

**Gil-galad**

They were approaching the core of Sauron's army, a heart of shadow and flame. This was good, Gil-galad thought. If only he could come face to face with the ancient foe of his House... At that moment he knew with the certainty of foresight that it was his destiny to face the Deceiver with Aiglos in his hand, though the where and when remained veiled to him. Since before they set out from the Havens, he had hoped and prayed that it would happen in this very battle.

His fingers tightened around his spear. The shaft was his determination, the blade his will, the tip his hatred for the fallen Maia. The rays of Anor glinted on the metal, a spark as bright as Sauron's fire was dark. If only he could vanquish this enemy, his army could fall apart around him, his star could fall into darkness - and it would not matter, for the light would still prevail.

And it seemed that his army did indeed fall apart as they split the ranks of the orcs like a wedge, in a final attempt to turn the tide of evil. Tárion was still with him, but he did not see Celebrían, he knew that Argon was dead, and the King's guard had been decimated. Jerking his spear out of a body and plunging it into the next foe he licked his dry lips, tasting blood. He ventured a glance towards the Southwest. The Ciryatur remained an uncertain factor, while the Númenorean reinforcements -

The trumpets blowing from afar actually surprised him. The sound did not only bridge the space separating them from him and his warriors, but also the doubts that had settled between him and the race of Men like dust that dulls all things fair and shining. All about him, the Eldar shouted with joy. The fighting slowed down as the trumpeting reached the ears of their enemies. The orcs hesitated, listening, while their mortal allies glanced around in confusion, unaware yet of what was happening.

Gil-galad used the opportunity to gaze southeast once again. His keen eyes could discern banners and flashing spears and long columns rippling along the river bank like a glittering serpent. And he saw something else, as well.

He turned aside. 'The Ciryatur is sending in the rest of his cavalry!' he bellowed into Tárion's ear. And his captain and lover flashed him a grin and repeated the battle cry of the Edain of old on the top of his voice: _Lacho calad! Drego morn!_ (2)

'We will take him yet!' Gil-galad shouted, raising his spear.

Yet strangely enough, what had seemed within reach when he thought they were losing the battle receded now like a tide running out. The dark presence ahead did no longer loom as large; it was no longer the menace it had been, but began to elude him, withdrawing faster than the King and his host could press on. The orcs and Sauron's mortal allies fled before the wrath of Gil-galad and his remaining guards, before Círdan's shipwrights, before the Númenorean horsemen - led by the Ciryatur on his great war-horse. It was an ordered retreat, as if a great will controlled them, telling them to withdraw in order to regroup later. No end had come to the struggle yet.

Today was not the day, then, Gil-galad thought, a drop of disappointment diluting his triumph. Maybe not tomorrow either. But the light was bright and their hopes were alive. For a while the shadows shortened.

(to be concluded in the Epilogue)

1)These nicknames are all derived from The Silmarillion.  
2)Sindarin: Flame light, flee night.  



	51. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silm/UT-based. A Second Age story about Gil-galad, Galadriel, the three Elven-Rings, and Glorfindel's return to Middle-earth.

**Galadriel**

The surface of the bowl misted over. Galadriel straightened for the last time, turning away from the water that mirrored nothing but her own face now. Tendrils of relief and regret twined around her heart. Her daughter was well and the High King had prevailed, but the Dark Lord was by no means defeated; by conceding one battle he had not lost the war. Ancient evil burrows deep and is not easily uprooted.

_One day it will be vanquished._ Yet even this conviction did not bring the poignant joy to which tears were the truest response. Arda would remain Marred until the End; grief and suffering would ever harrow these mortal lands. And while the Powers of the West believed that mortals would have a part in the healing of the world's evils, they would remain flawed instruments and a sorrow unto themselves and others. Westernesse had saved the day, but the man who led its army was under the Shadow. The water did not lie.

Galadriel gazed down at Nenya, suspended on its delicate chain. She had made her choice before the armies left Mithlond. She would abide by it. If her refusal to surrender the ring of sapphire barred her return to the Aman once again, so be it - the battered, bleeding lands of Endor would fare the better for it.

She thought of Celeborn, her beloved. At least this victory had raised her hopes to be reunited with him - for a while.

***

**Gildor**

'I can walk,' he insisted.

Beregar looked dubious: 'If you say so,' he muttered. Not that the young mortal was entirely hale, but at least an arm wound does not prevent one from walking, or supporting a comrade-in-arms with the other arm. Gildor's wound was the old injury in his side, reopened by the tip of an orc scimitar shortly before their enemies had retreated. For a denizen of the Blessed Realm, he was not overly blessed, he thought, smiling wryly at himself.

Then it occurred to him that he was no longer a denizen of the Blessed Realm. He could only guess what Glorfindel would do, but no ship would carry Gildor Inglorion from the Havens for many yeni to come. It was Zaba's death that had sealed his fate, he knew now. These mortal shores had been her homelands. He owed it to her memory to walk the earth that her feet had trod for as long a time as would be granted to him, or until the evil that had destroyed her would be wiped from the face of the earth. Thus he would abide here - not in loneliness, and yet alone, taking no wife even though nothing bound him to Zaba but the mystery of what might have been.

They began to weave their way across a field strewn with fallen enemies and broken blades and rent and pitted by numerous hooves and feet. Walking was strenuous, and after a while Beregar asked: Gildor, are you certain that you do not want to rest?'

'Perfectly,' Gildor replied. 'It's not far now, and I do not intend to collapse before we make it back to the Elvish camp. Victory does wonders for the morale.'

The silence that followed was long but not really uncomfortable. 'Fine, Gildor, I concede that you were right about not shooting that... that man before we knew where he stood,' the young mortal replied at last, 'though why you should think that you have the additional right to gloat escapes me. This was a victory of necessity over principle.'

Or of brains over brawn and sense over sensitivity? But as Gildor was not sure he was entirely fit to pose as the champion of good sense, he wisely held his tongue. He would be well advised to practise a little.

Once again it was Beregar who spoke up first. 'Would you have shot him if he had turned against you - I mean, the Elves?'

Gildor thought for a while, searching his soul. 'I do not think so,' he replied truthfully.

'Why not?'

'Because you would have shot him first?'

Beregar pulled a face. 'And if I had missed?'

'The possibility never even crossed my mind. You are an excellent archer.'

'Why, thank you, even though I suspect the compliment is qualified.'

'It is not,' Gildor told him, shocking Beregar into silence, maybe because he meant it.

The first Elf they encountered on their way back to the High King was Glorfindel, who seemed to be actively looking for them. He was, Gildor noticed, the very image of relief. It was good to be wanted.

'We are,' he announced, forestalling the questions, 'quite all right. Nothing that good care and rest cannot heal.' _Time, though, is a different matter._

One half of Glorfindel's mouth smiled, while the other half appeared to regret the unspoken half of the truth. 'I trust that neither of you has committed an irredeemable folly, then?'

'We managed to grow up - thank you, my lord Glorfindel.'

It was said with a mixture of mockery and sadness. Gildor turned his head in mild surprise. 'Did you have to steal my words, Beregar?'

***

**The Ciryatur**

The Ciryatur lay down on his field-bed. The night was young, but his ageing body was tired and craved rest.

The fatigue was mostly pleasant, though; he was a satisfied man. His decision not to change sides had worked out well. There had been a moment of doubt when it seemed that the reinforcements had been too little and too late. But the Ciryatur told himself that it had not been a gamble on his part to ignore Annatar's invitation to join him. Definitely not; he liked to think of himself as shrewd and calculating - as a man who knew what he was about.

The Elvenking had needed him, whereas Annatar had merely wanted him. And despite their victory, Gil-galad still needed him: the enemies had retreated but not lost and these lands would never know true peace until they were swept clean. It could be done: the other side had proved vulnerable. New reinforcements would set out from Lond Daer at the mouths of the Gwathlo, marching for the crossings of Tharbad; the strategy of Westernesse was sound. Surely they would be able to beat the orcs and barbarians once more.

The crucial question, the admiral mused, was what would happen when the other side would need him as badly as the Elves did. If Annatar were to lose the next battle as well, he would perhaps rephrase his invitation as a request for aid - and the commander of the Numenórean army would find himself in an ideal position. The Ciryatur wondered who would be the highest bidder. The Elves had little more to offer than fair words and beauty, but maybe the beauty would suffice if it took the form of a silver-haired maiden.

He fingered the hardness under his velvet night robes, pressing it into the bare skin of his chest. It radiated a pleasant heat. It was easy to guess that the maker of his ring had not told him all there was to know, and at the moment the ring's promises were no less alluring than the silver maiden. More, if he was honest with himself. The ring held power; he could sense it, feel it throb with a heartbeat of its own. Love seemed pale compared to the potency of this passion.

He experienced a moment of uncertainty. What if he had spoiled his chances with Annatar? What if there would be no second invitation, let alone a plea for help? Then he smiled in the dimness of his pavillion. Again, he felt the power of the ring. Did he really need Annatar?

To his surprise, the Ciryatur realised that his fatigue was gone. He felt remarkably strong, better than he had done in many years, capable of anything. Why not found a realm of his own on these shores, instead of living the remainder of his natural life on the isle of Númenor as Tar Minastir's loyal but humble servant? He would have little trouble recruiting enough men to follow him and swear him fealty and subdue the kingdoms of the barbarians for him. After all, it was not Tar Minastir who had led this army to victory.

Yes, he said to himself, smiling once more. I may just do that.

Suddenly, the future held more promise than it had ever done in the past while he was young. He could almost believe that he had been granted the life of the Eldar - were it not, that such a thing was impossible, naturally.

***

**Tárion**

He found Gil-galad standing rigidly erect in the starlit stream, close to the riverbank and gazing into the night. Tárion sat down on a small boulder to pull his boots off and put them beside the King's. When he waded into the chilly water Gil-galad looked back with the trace of a smile, but he did not speak. Neither did Tárion; instead, he laid a hand on the shoulder nearest to him. It felt slightly tense when his palm first touched it, but he felt it relax when he squeezed it gently.

In the end it was Gil-galad who spoke first. 'We did not even come close, did we?'

_We came close to losing the battle..._. But Tárion knew what his lover meant. 'Do you believe that we did not try hard enough?'

'Valanya, I _know_ that I did not try hard enough,' replied Gil-galad, sounding a little exasperated.

'True enough. You did not try hard enough to be slain in an attempt to reach him, commanding an army rather than pursuing great and memorable deeds,' Tárion conceded. 'I am fully convinced that you could have come within ten feet of him before being slaughtered today. Next time, you will have to rethink your strategy, so that after the victory, I can assure you that you could have come within, say, six feet before -' He fell silent; Gil-galad was perfectly able to fill in the conclusion containing the six feet under.

A snort, as expected. 'Could you please add now that, secondly, he was obviously not yet doomed to fall yet, and that thirdly, I had better stop chewing, and swallow?'

'It is always my pleasure to oblige, my dear lord. Consider it said.'

Turning away from the early stars scattered across the nightly sky Gil-galad sought Tárion's face. He smiled. 'I feel better already. Care to oblige me a little more - do we have to worry as much about our mortal allies next time as we had today?'

Tárion frowned, shifting in the water. He felt the current tug vainly at his calves and remembered that this was one of the few spots where the river was shallow enough to be safe. 'I am out of my depths there, Arto,' he said truthfully. 'Glorfindel was able to break the lure of that damnable ring, but he also said that it seemed to be attuned to mortals. Even if our friend the Ciryatur has not yet succumbed to the temptations of its evil master, it does not mean that he never will. But as it is your doom in Middle-earth to strive against the Dark Lord, you have little choice but to pursue this path to the end - unless you can choose to be other than you were made to be.'

He saw Gil-galad's eyes grow dark as the sky then, but not with displeasure, concern or rejection. 'You are indeed most obliging, my love,' he murmured, 'telling me so willingly what I want to hear.' He stepped a little closer. 'You did See him fall, did you?'

'And had I not, would you abandon the fight?'

Gil-galad did not even bother to shake his head. 'One does not need hope to endeavour...'

'... nor success to persevere,'(1) Tárion finished.  
  
Their kiss was short, a brushing of lips only, hands clasping shoulders as in a courteous embrace. It could even pass for innocent to any who wished to see it thus, and as they were fully visible from the camp, they were undoubtedly being watched. But it did not matter what it looked like, Tárion thought when they left the river, picked up their boots and returned to the camp, barefoot in the shadowy grass and side by side.

THE END

1)A saying of William the Silent, Prince of Orange, that always struck me as very Tolkienish. The original French version: Il n'est pas besoin d'espérer pour entreprendre, ni de réussir pour persévérer.

 

 

_Finally, to all the readers who made it to the end: thank you for reading this story!_ \- Vorondis

  



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